


eyes of the lion, heart burning like fire

by Valania



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU: fantasy, Action, Adventure, Adventuring Together, Alternative Universe: The Witcher, Half-Elven!Lance, M/M, Mage!Lance, Monster Slaying, Romance, Slow Burn, Sword Fighting, Witcher!Adam, Witcher!Keith, Witcher!Shiro, a lot of this is just a big ????, background Adashi, human!keith, magic user discrimination, non-human discrimination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-09-01 21:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valania/pseuds/Valania
Summary: The life of a witcher is a lonely one, but maybe it doesn't have to be.The life of a mage is full of secrets, but maybe they're better shared.-x-"Well, in that case, who the hell are you?" the mage asks, eyeing him warily.Keith reaches into his armor and tunic, tugging on the silver chain hanging around his neck with one hand as he points at the dual swords strapped to his back with the other. "Someone looking for work."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oi whass gud homeslices. back on my writing bullshit with an au this time. 
> 
> the witcher universe is very dear to my heart and i'm not sure why i didn't think of this au sooner tbh. i owe it all to the Klance Writers Support discord server for making me foam at the mouth with fantasy and fairy tale au talk, and for all the support and the encouragement they provide every single day I LOVE YOU ALL UWU
> 
> also special thanks to Sara (stormie2817) for putting up with my yelling about this au, being so motivating and supporting, and betaing for me! Y'ALL THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I'VE HAD A BETA AND IM SO HAPPY ILYSM SARA 
> 
> oh just in case you're curious, this is heavily based off of the third Witcher game, with the lore and the setting and stuff. 
> 
> i'm thinking i'll update weekly, but my schedule's been really hectic lately so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ we'll see lmao 
> 
> site note: this is highly enjoyable with The Witcher 3 OST playing in the background. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

"Well, this is where we part ways," Shiro says tacitly, saddling his horse, reinforcing the knots that hold the cockatrice trophy strapped to his saddlebags. "I'm sorry I can't stick around longer."

Keith glances at his brother with a half-smile on his face. "None of that. I don't think I would have fared as well against that Bruxa by myself."

Shiro chuckles, the scar over his nose crinkling. "I don't know about that. These contracts are getting tougher and more dangerous the further north we get, though. You oughta be more careful."

Keith rolls his eyes fondly. "Kaer Morhen called. They want their mother hen back."

"All right, all right," his brother says lightly, mounting his horse and readjusting the two swords strapped to his back before taking the reins. He seems to sober up, looking down at Keith. "In all honesty, though, Keith... You need to be cautious. Things are getting worse out here. It won't be long before they tire of annihilating sorceresses and mages, and start zeroing in on witchers,” he pauses, glancing down at the silver chain hanging from Keith’s neck. “Especially with a symbol like that on your chest like a target.”

Keith frowns, giving the Cat medallion hanging limply over his armor a quick look. He sighs before shoving it down under his tunic. "Yeah, yeah. Keep a low profile and all that. I wasn't born yesterday, Shiro. I know how to watch my own back." Keith deadpans, looking back up with an eyebrow raised.

"All the same, you'd save me constant heartburn if you promise to lay low." Shiro replies tacitly. "Or as low as a witcher can lay, anyway."

His brother's concern, though irritating, is completely valid, and Keith knows it. No one knows how reckless Keith can be better than Shiro, after all they’ve been through over the years. They're all they have. Not brothers by blood, but by choice.

"Cross my heart and all that shit," he says and then smirks knowingly. "Now get out of here. Adam will be expecting you."

Shiro smiles warmly at him before he nudges his horse with his booted foot gently, and just like that, he's gone.

-x-

The life of a Witcher is a lonely one.

It’s been a week of traveling without Shiro around to watch his back. He’s been careful, of course. Taking precautions like staying on the well-traveled roads, making sure he only stops in populated areas he’s familiar with for the night. This is not the first time he’s found himself alone on the Path; Keith really does tend to prefer it this way, and yet, he finds himself missing his brother’s companionship more and more each day. With Shiro spending the harsh winter back in Kaer Morhen, the keep of the School of the Wolf witchers, it’ll be months until they see each other again.

If he were a different kind of person, he might feel jealous. His horse and saddle are the closest things to a home Keith has ever known. School of the Cat witchers don't have the luxury of a keep, or any sort of stable location, really; the caravan life has never suited him. It's never been much of a problem for Keith regardless - more often than not, he's able to find an inn to crash at, or when the need calls for it, abandoned homes do the trick just fine.

Keith glances at the notice board in front of him, sighing as his sharp eyes scan the yellowed parchments nailed to the aged wood with mild interest. There's only one witcher contract posted, promising a large sum of coin to deal with an ogroid infestation just past the bend of the lake. He rips it off the board and tucks it into his hip pouch before whistling for Kosmo.

His horse trots back to him dutifully. Keith runs his fingers through his long mane before patting his neck affectionately. "Better make tracks," he says quietly. "this place is depressing."

He mounts his horse in one fluid motion, gripping the reins in one hand as he glances out into the expanse of the village around him. The few hovels that stretch along across the small valley look desolate. There are a handful of peasants milling around their abodes, tending to their every day chores, looking wearier than usual. It's not surprising to see why. Lindenvale isn't as devoid of population, like most settlements he’s come across the further north he gets into Temeria and away from the heart of Velen. Still, the signs of bloodshed are everywhere; war is a disgusting look on any landscape.

  
There's a quiet rustle beside him and, out of his peripheral, Keith sees a witch hunter walk up to the notice board, boots and tattered traveling cloak caked in mud and grime. He quickly nails a new notice onto the board before sparing Keith a side eye glare. "Hmph," he scoffs, hocking back a loogie and spitting in Keith's direction before stalking off. "Freaks a' nature, the whole lot of ‘em witchers." he hears the elder man mutter to himself.

Keith rolls his eyes sardonically, amused; he’s been called much worse by peasants in the past. He’d expect a better array of insults instead of the same regurgitated bullshit from a witch hunter.

Directing Kosmo out of town, he passes by the witch hunter and sends him a smug smirk. "Better work on that aim. You missed." and then he's urging Kosmo faster, making sure to splatter the asshole with mud and shit on his way out of the village.

He allows himself a satisfied chuckle at the older man’s shouts of indignation and rage, knowing Shiro would be having a fit if he were with him.

The open road breaks out into a simple dwindling path the farther he gets from Lindenvale, welcoming him with familiarity and warmth he’s only ever found with his brother and in the wilderness. There's nothing like the stretch of valleys and trees greeting him for miles and miles.

_ ‘Wanderlust_,’ a bard in Novigrad had once told Keith over a game of Gwent, ‘_is that pull you feel in your gut when you see an open valley and wish for nothing more than to get lost in it. You know it too, don’t you, witcher?_’

He hadn’t said so at the time, but the bard’s words had deeply resonated with him. The path is his true home, the one place he knows he truly belongs. He slows Kosmo down to a light trot and admires the view ahead of him with awe. He’ll never tire of the sight.

It's early morning. The sun is peeking out from under the heavy cover of thick, grey clouds. The wind's howling, whipping his dark hair about his face wildly, but he burrows deep in his traveling cloak, not minding it one bit. He could stare out at the expanse of the earth for hours upon hours and not feel time pass him by.

His grumbling stomach interrupts his thoughts; he reaches into his saddlebags, on the hunt for some breakfast, but frowns when he finds his nearly empty waterskin and depleted reserves of food instead. He's running low on supplies - there had been no traveling merchants on the way to Lindenvale, and the one mercantile in the village proper had been ridiculously overpriced. He'll have to scavenge for his next meal again.

Giving up on breakfast, he glances around and realizes he should be getting close to his destination. He takes a deep breath and concentrates on honing and extending his witcher senses, his ears picking up even the faintest of cracks as the trees rock and sway with the wind. His eyes flash and he can see minute details in his surroundings that hadn't been there before. His nose, now sharper than that of a dog's, picks up dozens of scents: petrichor, heavy in the air after last night's downpour. A herd of deer passing through a few hundred feet away. Sweet Celandine and Arenaria blossom bushes. The clean, fresh scent of the lake. The stench of rotting flesh and blood.

The contract had stated some sort of ogroid infestation close to the lake. Nekkers, most likely.

"Bingo." he smirks again. "C'mon, Kosmo!" and off they go.

-x-

"Gotta be the place, right?" he asks Kosmo as they approach the hovel. It's deep into the woods, a quarter of a mile away from the bend of the lake. Thick vines wrap all around the aged wood, and he can see all sorts of plants in a small enclosed garden on the side surrounded by a wooden fence: multitudes of Beggartick Blossoms, Crow's Eye, Moleyarrow, Nostrix, Fool's Parsley, and many more, all coated in a thin layer of morning dew. It's really quite charming. Large trees surround the property, shading it from the late autumn sun. Keith can see a beautiful horse in a makeshift stable to the side; it shares its enclosure with a lonely-looking chicken coop.

Keith dismounts slowly, glancing around for signs of life. He activates his witcher senses again for a few seconds, but there's no trace of any ogroids in the area.

He walks Kosmo to a post on the wooden fence. "You stay here and behave, all right?" he says lightly, patting him on the nose affectionately before making his way to the door. He reaches for the contract, newly crumpled after having been stuffed in his hip pouch - again.

_ Contact Lance for more details, _ it’s signed at the bottom. He stuffs it back in place and raises his gauntleted fist to knock. Before his knuckles make contact, he hears a crash and a panicked, "_Fuck_, _ no no no no_!" from inside.

His witcher senses flashing back on automatically, Keith barrels through the door, shoulder first.

The main thing he notices in the fraction of a second he takes to survey his surroundings is how big and open the inside of the apparently deceptive cottage is. He had been expecting a single room with all the necessities, but there are several rooms from what he can make out from the threshold.

Stocked shelves line the wall facing the door, and Keith can see everything from heavy tomes, to drying herbs, to glass jars with odd-looking liquids swirling inside.

There's a surprised screech coming from his left, and the next thing Keith knows, his medallion is humming like crazy, alerting him of a strong magical presence. His instincts scream at him to duck, move, to do _ something. _Before he can tell what's happening, his hand is quickly forming the seals for his Quen sign; he feels the familiar, comforting warmth spreading throughout his limbs protectively.

As dexterous as his training has made him, there's just no time to dodge out of the way of the spell he now sees coming his way; all he can do is square his shoulders and brace himself for impact.

When the spell reaches him and fizzles out as it comes in contact with Keith's Quen shield, there's a small, pregnant pause from both parties. Keith looks up over his shoulder, generously dishing out the most venomous glare he can muster.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry. I-I swear that wasn't magic, it's not what it looks like-" An attractive man stands some twenty feet away, roughly the same age as Keith, arms waving frantically in front of him, deep flush dusted over smooth, brown skin.

_ Wearing a mage get-up, too, from the looks of it. Huh. _

"Hey, wait a minute," the mage says suddenly, blue eyes blinking in realization. "You're not a witch hunter-"

Keith scoffs, annoyance prickling at the back of his neck. "Of course I'm not a gods damned witch hunter. No self-respecting person with half a fuckin’ brain would be." he sneers, picking himself up off the floor, dusting his trousers off.

"Well, in that case, who the hell are you?" the mage asks, eyeing him warily.

Keith reaches into his armor and tunic, tugging on the silver chain hanging around his neck with one hand as he points at the dual swords strapped to his back with the other. "Someone looking for work."

He's expecting the mage's reaction to mirror those of everyone else at the sight of the Cat medallion. Disgust. Fear. Distrust.

"Oh! You're here about the contract!" the mage exclaims instead, face relaxing into an excited grin. "Why didn't you just say so earlier?" He waves a hand in the direction of the broken door, mumbling in what Keith recognizes as Elder Speech under his breath. There's a flash of beautiful blue and silver effervescent light, and suddenly, Keith can see the damaged wood slowly converge back to its original shape.

"You know," Keith starts mildly, eyes focusing on the last vestiges of magic clinging to the door as they dissipate, suddenly feeling outclassed by the mage's recklessness. "I saw a witch hunter back in Lindenvale less than an hour ago headed this way," he glances up again, his yellow eyes meeting blue. "Might do you some good to keep the magic displays down to a minimum unless you're specifically looking to get roasted today."

"Shit," the jovial smile drains from the mage's face as a small, worried frown sets on his brow. He quickly picks his way through the mess at his feet; books, broken jars, potion components, all covered in a thin layer of soot. Keith deduces it must've been the crash he'd heard before. "Really? Coming this direction?" He heads for the newly-repaired door beside Keith, shooting a few paranoid glances outside before ushering the witcher inside past the entrance.

He gets a good look at the mage, presumably Lance, then; he's wearing ornately long, flowing blue and silver robes that accentuate his tall frame. On his neck sits a pendant of a dragon holding the moon in its claws - the insignia worn by Ban Ard Mage academy graduates, Keith recalls. Much like his own witcher medallion, it's an identity. A place to belong to.

This close to him, he can see the elongated tips of his ears poking through his shaggy hair. Too long to be human, too short to be elven.

_ A half-breed mage… it's like he's got an especially vicious death wish. _

"Yeah," he says, averting his gaze as Lance closes the door. "He seemed to be traveling by foot, so he's probably not anywhere close by. Unless he's with a caravan. Seen a few of those lately."

"Well, that just figures," Lance says with a sigh as he walks back to the mess on the floor and bends down, picking up a few grimoires, dusting soot off their covers and spines. "I mean, I'm pretty far off the road, so I don't think it’s an issue. Still, all these witch hunts… well, it’s all getting pretty old."

Keith crouches to pick up glass shards, mindful of whatever liquids are spilled under. "They're relentless." he agrees.

"Well, Mr. Witcher, I'm sure you're not here to talk about my woes," the mage says, glancing up at him slyly as he stands up, books resting under his arm.

"Not particularly, no." Keith says after he's cleaned and thrown away the glass shards in the bin Lance points to in the corner. He reaches into his pocket again, the parchment creased. "You got an ogroid problem, that right?"

Lance nods and starts walking back through one of the opened doors, motioning for Keith to follow with a jerk of his head. "Yeah. Nekkers, mostly. It'd be different if it were one or two at a time, but they're multiplying fast. It's a real pain! They've done away with all my chickens, the bastards! I would take care of it, but I'm not exactly comfortable using magic out in the open at the moment."

"Don't blame ya, shit's getting ugly out there," Keith mutters, sharp eyes taking in the details of the room. It's a study of sorts, or maybe a laboratory. There's all sorts of books and potion jars on a desk pushed up against one of the walls, but perhaps the most surprising—"Holy shit, is that a _ megascope_?"

"Hm?" Lance glances over at the device. There are three stands each with a mirror attached at the top, facing each other in a triangle formation in the middle of the room. "Yeah, sorry if it's in the way. Takes up quite a bit of space."

Keith can't help his curiosity. He inches closer to it, inspecting it from a relatively safe distance. He'd heard of megascopes and seen them depicted in books in the past, but this is his first time seeing one in person. His knowledge of them rudimentary at best. "How does it work?" he can't help but ask.

"Oh, this old thing?" Lance asks with a blink. "It amplifies my teleportation and communications spells," he points at the crystal set up on the closest of the three stands. "These crystals enhance magical ability and act as a sort of catalyst to allow clear images to come through these." he points at the small mirror on the stand with a nod of his head as he sets his burden down on the desk. "Or portals, when I summon them."

Keith surveys the device for a few seconds before he feels eyes on him. He looks back up, clearing his throat awkwardly when he notices Lance grin at him. "So, how long have you been dealing with those nekkers, anyway?"

"Hmmm," Lance hums, looking away as he bites his lip, seemingly not minding the change in subject. "Few weeks, perhaps? They'd never been a problem around this area until recently."

"Probably made themselves a nest nearby," Keith muses, mentally leafing through his inventory. He's got a few Grapeshot bombs to blow up the nests, and if things get ugly, he can always craft more. He's got enough Saltpeter and Calcium Equum for maybe three others.

"I could show you the area they've been hanging out at, if you want." Lance offers. "I've been cooped up inside since the raids in Novigrad and Oxenfurt started spreading south. Some fresh air would probably do me wonders."

Keith purses his lips thoughtfully. It's a bad idea on all fronts, ridiculously dangerous. There's a reason witchers tend to either work alone, or with other witchers exclusively, he reminds himself. Not to mention the shitstorm they could potentially bring upon themselves if Lance is discovered by a witch hunter or a whistle-blower. It would put Keith in a compromising position, harboring a mage. It's stupidly risky.

But, well. Not like Keith's ever really cared about avoiding danger, anyway.

He shrugs after a few seconds. "It's your neck." he finally says. _ And mine too, but what else is new? _ he thinks.

The smile Lance gives him is almost goofy; his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunches up in excitement. "Hell yeah, it is! Hang on, lemme grab my cloak!" he exclaims, bouncing out of the room.

Keith finds himself smiling slightly in his wake. Lance's joy is contagious. Still, there's a feeling nagging at his gut.

Maybe it _ is _ a terrible idea, Keith thinks to himself as he stalks out of the room after Lance. But damn, if he doesn't wanna see some of those fancy spells in action.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi mtv welcome back to my fic 
> 
> i'm so excited to be posting chapter two today. i'm thinking upload days will be every other thursday? hopefully i can stick to that;; 
> 
> special shoutout to Sara (stormie2817) for betaing this chapter! you're the Shiro to my Keith and i love you so much  
also a shoutout to the KWS gc for just being so lovely and encouraging and klajsdf i love you guys sm 
> 
> every chapter will alternate in perspective unless otherwise stated - today's is our cute lil mage's turn uwu i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> oh ps, there is some Elder Speech in this chapter - translations will be in the end notes!!

Lance knows it's a bad idea.

He runs out of the room, waving a hand and muttering an incantation as he goes to clean up the mess he'd made earlier on his rug. Spell crafting isn't his strongest suit.

He grabs his favorite cloak—made of beautiful silver gossamer, gifted to him by Hunk after he'd graduated from the Academy—as well as his Bag of Holding. He quickly throws the cloak over his shoulders in a flourish and straps the bag to his belt sash tightly as he walks out of his bedroom, grin intact.

The witcher is standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning against the door Lance had just fixed. His amber, cat-like eyes survey the room with almost child-like curiosity, but Lance can tell he's trying to be subtle.

Lance knows he's staring, but _gods_, he can't help it. He's heard of witchers, of course. They're a dying breed these days, but their infamy lives on in old wives’ tales and grim rumors. A reputation that precedes them. _Ugly_ _creatures_, he'd heard, _witchers are ugly inside an' out, thems greedy bastards ain't willin' to lift a single cursed finger 'less coin's involved_.

He doesn't know how true the greedy part is—he's just met the guy, but he can tell that at least some of the rumors are false. There isn't a single ugly thing about the witcher standing in his foyer. Not his rugged expression, not his broad shoulders and narrow waist, not his strong thighs, or the biceps straining against the chainmail links of his armor; not even his long, clearly unwashed, dark hair—Lance can't really fault him for that. He knows witchers are nomadic by nature and don't always have easy access to clean water. He has a few scars marring his pale skin, some on his face, some peeking out from under his armor and tunic. And the amber of his eyes, though daunting at first, is really quite fascinating. He idly wonders what his true eye color had been before the mutations.

The witcher clears his throat softly, and Lance snaps out of his thoughts with a rush of embarrassment at being caught ogling. "Ready to head out?"

"Oh, um, just a second! Sorry, I never leave the house without my megascope and grimoire." He says as he makes his way back to his study, hastily shoving the spellbook in his Bag of Holding. "You know, precaution and all that. Never know when I'm gonna need them." he starts disassembling the megascope stands and carefully setting them inside his bag as well.

"Smart," the witcher remarks from his spot by the door as Lance is finishing up. He moves on to grab a few potions, salves, ointments. Really, anything he thinks might be beneficial.

He takes a second to glance around his study: all the important things—the things he can't leave behind, not even for a  _ second _ —are safely in his bag. The rest… well, it would really be shitty to lose it all, but it's replaceable. Since the raids started cropping up in Novigrad and Oxenfurt, he's been careful to never leave home without the essentials.

He takes a deep breath and turns around. "Ready!" he says, grinning. The witcher stands up straight and nods once before opening the door and walking out without a second thought.

Lance makes to follow, but there's an odd tug at his gut. There really isn't a word for it, not one he can think of right off the top of his head. He looks back at his little hovel: it's humble and homely—a place of refuge in a world that wants him dead.

"Stupid," he whispers, scoffing a bit as he runs his hands over the rough wood of the threshold. "it's not like it's going anywhere."

When he turns to get Kaltenecker saddled up and ready to head out, it's without a second glance.

-x-

"Shit," the witcher mutters some 20 minutes later. "nekker tracks everywhere you look around here. You weren't kidding about there being an infestation."

They've dismounted and left their horses a safe distance away as they slowly make their way through the underbrush. "Unfortunately not," Lance responds offhandedly, eyes following the witcher's every step as if in a trance. "how can you tell they're nekker tracks? Is that a witcher thing?"

The witcher nods absentmindedly, gaze glued to the ground. "You could say that, yeah," he says. "I have heightened senses. I can pick up a fresh trail by scent alone, and these fuckers  _ reek _ . Not as bad as ghouls, but enough to tell we're going the right way."

"But you're also looking at actual tracks, right?" Lance asks, bewildered.

"Mhmm," the witcher hums. "Just covering all my bases."

"Right," Lance purses his lips. "Sorry, I don't mean to be annoying or distracting. Just let me know when you want me to shut up. I'm just so curious! I've never seen a witcher before, let alone watched one at work!"

The witcher raises his head, his impassive gaze locking with Lance's, and oh gods, he can feel the tips of his ears burning. "No, I, uh… I don't mind, actually." the witcher says, clearing his throat and tearing his gaze from Lance's, a hand subconsciously raising to rub at his neck nervously. "Just not really used to people being curious about my trade without an ulterior motive. It's, um. Nice."

Lance blinks, feeling something like sadness pooling in his gut, bubbling its way up his chest and throat slowly. He knows what people think. He's heard the whispers, the foul name-calling, the hatred of the unknown. He knows it all like the back of hand, has lived it himself. Different circumstances, same outcome. "That's a damn shame," he comments quietly, maintaining eye contact when the witcher looks up at him again. Lance notices they've stopped walking. "but hey, it's their loss, right?" he says with a small, crooked smile.

_ I get it _ , he wants to say, but doesn't.  _ I know what it's like to be a pariah _ .

The witcher—he'll need to find his name out soon, he can't keep referring to him as such forever—tilts his head inquisitively, a cute little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely not mine, that's for sure."

The hollow feeling in his stomach dissipates slowly as a grin replaces the crooked smile. "That's the spirit! Now, come on, we've got some nekkers to dispatch! These crowns aren't going to earn themselves."

He sees the witcher shake his head in amusement, the whisper of a chuckle in his throat; when he feels the sudden tension in the air evaporate into comfortable, companionable silence, Lance counts it as a win.

-x-

"We're getting close to the nest," the witcher says quietly, some ten minutes later. He moves through the undergrowth as stealthily as the cat depicted on his medallion would suggest; he belongs out here, Lance realizes with fascination, amongst the Velen wilderness, dark hair blending with the shadows generously provided by the darkening sky. It's mid-morning at this point, though dark clouds shield from sun exposure, promising a heavy deluge sometime between mid-afternoon through early-evening.

Lance takes a second to send his surroundings a cursory glance. "We are?"

"Shh, shh…" The witcher says suddenly, holding up a hand in warning. Lance immediately purses his lips, eyes roving the other man's face curiously as he strains to hear anything other than birds chirping and leaves swaying in the wind. There's a second in which Lance swears there's a change in the witcher's eyes—the yellow of his scleras deepening into almost orange flecks near the pinprick of his constricted pupil. He gives an almost imperceptible jerk of his chin just ahead of them as his right hand slowly reaches for one of the swords on his back.

He'd meant to ask about the dual swords, but in between an impromptu lesson on tracking and just being thoroughly mesmerized by everything he's observed, it had slipped his mind.

"Stay back, okay? I'm only sensing four out in the open, but these fuckers burrow and their nest is literally swarming. I can feel their presence below us.” 

Lance feels a flash of irritation, but he pushes it aside, knowing it’s the smartest thing to do. He’s taken care of the lone drowner or two, a few ghouls here and there. But he’s never dealt with a swarm of nekkers. He purses his lips, blue eyes locking with yellowed orange. “Are you sure?” He whispers. There’s rustling just a few feet away from them and they break eye contact in alarm, peering out from behind the large ginatia bushel they're using as cover. “I have some offensive spells that could help.”

“I’m sure,” the witcher responds immediately, voice hardly louder than a murmur. “A hoard this size can be ridiculously dangerous. They play up their ’strength in numbers’ tactic and their agility gives them a serious edge,” his hand rests on the hilt of his silver sword. He turns back to Lance with a determined look. "If they spot you, don't run away. They're fast and their claws have some reach. Regroup with me and I'll keep you safe."

Lance frowns, mildly offended. "I'm perfectly capable of-"

The witcher's hand is on his lips, effectively shutting him up, and he realizes he'd been steadily raising his voice with each word. He feels an embarrassed flush rise up the back of his neck, burning at the tips of his ears and the edge of his cheekbones. The witcher leans his head down, and Lance feels a pleasant warmth run up his spine at their sudden closeness, at the fingers on his lips. "I wasn't suggesting you're unable to defend yourself. I'm suggesting I need my employer safe and sound. Witchers don't work for free, you know."

_ Oh _ .

The witcher retracts his hand slowly and turns back to survey his prey. Lance feels the warmth he'd felt earlier evaporate.

Well, that answers his earlier thought, anyway. Maybe witchers really  _ are _ greed-driven. Though in war-time, he'd be hard-pressed to find someone who isn't.

"R-right." he responds, holding back a wince at how tight his voice comes out.

Without sparing him another look, the witcher slowly inches closer to the nekker hoard picking at the rotting remains of what had once been a doe.

The first strike is so fast, Lance almost completely misses it.

He catches the tail end of the flurry of attacks, though, as the witcher carves a destructive path through the nekker hoard.

Parry, glide, block. Pivot, dodge, counter-attack.

It's like the most violent dance Lance has ever seen. The witcher looks in his element, focused frown etched on his already brooding brow. He makes it look almost stupidly effortless. It's like he's barely breaking a sweat.

The nekkers had certainly been caught off-guard; now, however, they've had some time to adjust to the situation. They're squeaking at each other in their own twisted tongue; Lance has never heard anything like it. They come at the witcher with a new kind of viciousness, crowding around him and trying to find weak spots, but they're given none.

Lance sees practiced hands forming seals, and  _ fuck _ , witcher signs are  _ so damn cool _ . It's simple magic, he knows, nothing more than watered down versions of common spells adapted for practicality and easy field use. Lance had gotten a small little glimpse at Quen earlier, against his own stunning spell.

In theory, he knows what they all are—Aard, a telekinetic blast used to stupefy opponents and leave them open for ensuing attacks. Igni, the pyrokinetic inferno used to set enemies aflame. Yrden, a magic trap. Quen, a protective shield meant to absorb damage and keep its user safe for 30 seconds. And lastly, Axii, a type of charm used to sway opponents in your favor.

He'd studied these all when he'd been at the academy. But to see them in action… It's phenomenal.

Lance's train of thought is interrupted when the ground in front of him explodes; dirt, rocks, tufts of grass, and even bugs rain down on him and he can't help the yelp that escapes his throat. There's no time to worry about it, though, because suddenly there are nekkers surrounding him, too, pouring out from the hole in the ground, and  _ dammit,  _ he really shouldn't have worn his best cloak out for this…

He jumps back several feet, defensive stance up.

“Lance!” He hears the witcher call to him over the sounds of his own battle. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Lance calls back before he dodges a swipe from a stray nekker. “Worry about yourself!” Under his breath, the tongue of his kin leaves his lips as he mutters the incantation for a Winter Frenzy spell. " _ Invaerne folie _ !”

There's a familiar tingle coursing through his veins, the power flowing in tandem with his blood, enhancing his very being. He's always found using magic exhilarating, addicting.

Blue and silver pour out of his fingertips, coalescing into a point, building up cold energy before it's released into a fierce maelstrom that knocks his share of the nekker hoard back and away from him by several feet.

Lance takes the opening, hoping they'll be detracted from attacking again by the sleet, and scrambles to his feet.

“ _ Regroup with me and I'll keep you safe _ .”

He doesn't like the idea—he doesn't need the help, he is more than capable of keeping himself safe, like he'd tried saying earlier—but it's the smart thing to do. He's never faced off a hoard this big.

" _ Gláeddyv ar gynvael _ !” he says as he runs in the direction of the witcher, hand held out in front of him in anticipation as he summons forth his Frost Sword. The same blue and silver magical essence builds up in front of him, forming itself in the shape of an ice-covered blade.

Gripping the cold hilt tightly, he makes his way to the witcher, engaged in a flurry of never-ending blows. "They just keep coming!" Lance exclaims, looking over his shoulder at the witcher.

"The nest!" the witcher grunts, parrying off a claw attack with his silver sword. He steps back, and suddenly, Lance can feel the press of armor against the back of his cloak. "We have to get to the nest! I have some bombs we can drop in there. Should stop them from sprouting like fucking daisies."

Lance notes his breathing is the slightest bit labored. Maybe witchers aren't as infallible as he'd thought, but then, fighting so many nekkers all at once on his own… well, Lance can't blame him. "All right," he concedes holding his hand out, palm up. "You in a sharing mood?"

The witcher hesitates slightly before reaching into his hip pouch and producing two bombs. "I trust you have some sort of fire spell to set them off?"

Lance takes one of the bombs off his hand before he shoves it into one of the inner pockets of his cloak. "What kind of mage do you take me for? Of course I do!"

The witcher nods grimly, turning back to the nekkers, opening his stance again to attack. He starts to take a step forward, but a thought occurs to Lance; before he can really think about it, his free hand reaches out, grasping a well-defined bicep though chainmail armor. "Wait!"

"What is it?" the witcher retorts, fending off an attack with a swing of his sword and a grunt.

"I- um," Lance mentally stumbles as he slices through several nekkers at once, ice energy clinging to them, freezing them in their tracks. The chainmail armor slips through his sweaty fingers. "What's your name?"

"Huh?!"

"I-I just-" Lance sputters, feeling his cheeks redden immediately. He keeps his gaze averted as he swings his blade. "I realized I never asked for your name, and I don't want to keep referring to you in my head as 'the witcher'!"

There's a few seconds of silence that seem to stretch on and on eternally before he responds. "Keith," the witcher— _ Keith _ —says with a grunt. "Keith of Novigrad."

Lance can't help the grin on his face. "Well, Keith of Novigrad, I'm Lance of Ban Ard," he pants as he releases another spell, this time a Thunder Wave that sends the now-dwindling hoard back twenty or so feet. "it's a pleasure making your official acquaintance!" he exclaims in between blows. From a few feet away, he spots a mound of dirt with a hole in the center, half-rotted animal corpses surrounding it. It's well-hidden by the underbrush. "This it?! The nest?"

Keith sends him a quick look before turning back to his opponents. "Yes, that's it!"

Lance immediately drops his Frost Sword spell and reaches in his cloak pocket for the bomb. He doesn't notice the nekker coming for his throat until there's a swift slashing sound and its head rolls off in front of his feet, the tip of a silver sword visible just beyond his shoulder blade. "Thanks!" he breathes before sprinting for the nest, his most potent fire spell on the tip of his tongue.

He drops the bomb as he rushes past the mound and skids to a stop a safe distance away. " _ Addan ar aenye! _ " he says with a flourish, his hands extended out, pointed directly at the nest.

The detonation is a little underwhelming, but he can see the nest burning up with flames from his spell and a sort of noxious gas.

"I did it!" he whoops, before summoning his Frost Sword once more. " _ Please _ tell me you saw that, Keith!"

"Little busy here!" Keith responds from the other side of the clearing, fending off ten or so nekkers with quick slashes of his sword.

"Stop!" they suddenly hear a foreign voice exclaim. "Stop in your tracks, you fiend! I've caught you red-handed! You're a bloody mage!"

Lance feels himself stiffen as he whips his head back towards the direction of the voice. He sees an older man clad in witch hunter gear struggling to make his way to the clearing through the overgrown tree roots and rogue shrubs. "Oh, uh. Shit."

He sees the witch hunter turn his head back in the direction of whence he came. "We've got ourselves a fuckin' sorcerer, lads!" he calls out and a chorus of cheers reverberate back into the clearing. "And soddin' witcher to boot!"

Lance pales. "Fucking hell. No, no, no, no…"

Keith dispatches the last few nekkers he'd been dealing with and rushes back to Lance. "You have to get out of here,  _ now. _ " he says grimly.

"What?! No! I-I can't leave you behind! They'll burn you alive, too, for harboring a mage!" Lance says, voice pitched higher and dammit, he can't panic now. He has to think clearly, he has to find them both a way out of here safely.

"I can fend them off, or at least try, just until you get away!" Keith insists. There are five or six witch hunters running to them now, and in a last ditch effort to save their hides, Keith pushes Lance behind him and forms a simple hand seal.

"T-that's Aard!" Lance stammers as a wave of telekinetic energy is released, knocking the now-stunned witch hunters prone.

"Go, you've got a minute at best!" Keith growls fiercely, readying another Aard sign.

But no, of course he won't leave Keith to a death sentence. He can only hold so many of them back.

He brings his fingers to his mouth and blows  _ hard _ .

The whistle is loud as hell, and Lance can see Keith cringing as it hits his hyper-sensitive ears, but there's no time to apologize. He grabs Keith's arm and pulls hard when he hears Kaltenecker trotting up to him, Keith's horse following quickly behind. He quickly mounts Kaltenecker.

"Lance, we'll never get far on horseback!"

"Who said anything about horseback?" Lance throws back, letting go of Keith before focusing all his energy, lifting both arms towards the sky.

_ Where? Where's safe? _

A place flashes in his mind. It's not ideal, but the innkeeper's at least friendly. It's far enough away that they shouldn't have a problem teleporting to the nearby wilderness without anyone seeing them.

Decidedly, he brings his arms back down, opening a powerful rift, as focused as he possibly can. He can't fuck this portal up or they could end up in a worse position than their current one.

"Let's go!" he shouts, urging his horse forward into the portal, Keith a steady presence at his back.

"You better know what you're doing, Lance!" Keith says in an almost nervous voice.

In theory, he does; portals are indispensable tools for mages to master. He'd been drilled on them at the academy, warned about their incorrect casting. The dangers of a faulty or unstable portal could result in dismemberment or death.

He grins, self-assured. Good thing portals are his specialty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay a few things: i gave lance a d&d bag of holding because ~fantasy~ and it makes sense and because i'm a giant d&d nerd lmao that's it that's my explanation (his Thunder Wave spell is also from d&d lol)
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> Invaerne folie - Winter Frenzy  
Gláeddyv ar gynvael - Sword of Ice  
Addan ar aenye - Dance of Fire
> 
> one more thing: i did take some liberties with some aspects of this - for example, i actually have no idea what or if the Ban Ard academy has a logo of some kind. i did as much research as i could and found no such thing, so i improvised for the logo lance wears last chapter lmao. there will be quite a lot of that through this fic later on. 
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!! i’m back with a monster of a chapter today - i swear it wasn’t supposed to be this long - it just kinda happened?????
> 
> a huge thank you to everyone that’s commented and left kudos - i’m so glad you’re all enjoying!! AND SPECIAL SHOUTOUT the KWS discord group chat for their incredible support and TO MY SWEET BETAS FOR THIS CHAPTER DancingDowager and interstellarklance!!!! I LOVE YOU BOTH THANK YOU SM THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP UWU
> 
> ***trigger warnings for mentions of rape, abortion, and murder***

_ Never again _ is the only thought running through Keith's mind when his head stops spinning.

Kosmo is rattled as well - head thrown back as his nostrils flare, the white of his eyes showing. Keith quickly performs the signs for Axii with practiced ease over his head, a calming hand on his neck. "Woah, there Kosmo. It's all right."

The effect is immediate - Kosmo's erratic movements slow as the spell soothes him. He looks over as Lance and his own horse pass through the portal. The pretty black and white mare pulls at the bit and nickers nervously as she dances underneath Lance. "Shhh, it's okay, Kaltie; I'm sorry, beautiful, I know you hate it, I know," he's saying as her tail swishes madly.

Keith extends his arm, another Axii sign ready. "It's all right, girl," he says as the spell hits its target. "You're safe now."

As with Kosmo, Lance's horse immediately calms, shaking her head dazedly. Lance sighs heavily, tired smile on his lips. "Thanks. She hates portals."

"After that, I don't know that I'm very fond of them either," Keith retorts before taking a second to orient himself. His witcher senses flash automatically, searching for threats, but thankfully come up empty. These woods seem familiar but he's so discombobulated by the rapid travel that he can't be sure he's right. "Where the hell did you take us, anyway?"

"Ah, we're about a day's travel from The Inn at the Crossroads," Lance says. "I couldn't really think of anywhere else to go, and the innkeeper was nice last time I was here, so…"

"Which was when, exactly?" Keith asks, eyebrow raised. Ah, so he _ does _ remember this forest. He hasn't been in this neck of the woods in awhile, however. He wonders who rules it now.

"Well… how long ago did the raids in Oxenfurt start?" Lance asks thoughtfully. "I was staying with my friend Pidge and her family there when they broke out. Had to get as far away as I could and I ended up here. Witch hunters hadn't quite reached Velen yet, thankfully, or I would've been screwed."

Keith thinks back. It's been close to a year since rumors of the raids in Oxenfurt first sprouted - he'd been just outside the area taking care of a foglet issue when he'd gotten wind of it. "You know that might not be the case anymore, right?" He says quietly as they direct their horses towards the tavern. "A lot of people have turned to support Radovid to save neck."

Lance is quiet for a moment before he sighs. "Yeah, I know," he says, voice small. "I have to keep the faith, though."

Keith turns to look at him and finds a determined expression clouding his handsome face. "It's all I have left, and I'll be damned if they take that, too."

Keith feels a rush of respect course through him. Here's this half-elven mage with the entire world against him, trying his damndest to keep his head above water, to not let them win.

"You're right." Keith says, clearing his throat and looking ahead again, odd tingle in his chest. "That's, um. Really admirable."

He can hear a smile in Lance's voice as he resolutely keeps his eyes on the thin trees ahead of them. "Was that a compliment from Mr. Broody Witcher?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

Lance chuckles. "Well, in any case, I'm sorry for dragging you with me. I have your coin, though, so don't worry; you'll get your pay for fulfilling the contract."

"You know," Keith hums, pursing his lips as unfamiliar words bubble up his throat. "It's not everyday someone sticks their neck out for a witcher. Thank you."

Lance is quiet again. "You don't have to thank me, Keith. I just…" He hesitates and sighs again. "I know they're not fond of witchers either. No one is. It's bullshit, you know, how they only pretend to like you when they know you can take care of a problem for them. I don't like that."

Keith shrugs. "That's the way it's always been. We're nothing more than a means to an end."

"Yeah, but I mean," Lance says, voice suddenly indignant. "It's rotten! '_That's the way it's always been _ ' isn't a good enough reason! They beg and beg for help, hardly willing to hand over coin for the work you do and for _ risking your life_, and the second you complete your job, they're pointing at you and calling you a freak and a mutant? Willing to turn you over to people that wouldn't hesitate to kill you in cold blood?" he huffs in aggravation, shaking his head. There's anger in his voice at his expense, Keith realizes. A sudden, strange feeling blooms in the pit of his stomach that he can't name. "It's so opportunistic, it makes me sick. Doesn't it piss you off, even a little?"

And again, Keith shrugs nonchalantly. "It's not pleasant, but honestly, Lance," he says, looking right into the mage's eyes. "It's nothing we're not used to, those of us that are left. Besides," he breaks eye contact, looking out at the expanse of the wood. "Witchers don't feel emotions the same way you normal folk do."

"You... don't?"

"Part of the witcher mutations," he answers matter-of-factly. "On top of that, we're trained to suppress anything that would hinder our work like rage. Grief. Love."

"You've… never felt love?" Lance asks, hesitant.

Keith shakes his head. "Not in the same way you probably have."

"I had no idea," Lance comments, tone despondent. "I'm… sorry to hear that."

What an odd thing to say. Keith isn't sure he understands the sentiment. "Huh?"

"Living without knowing love… I wonder which one of us has had it worse."

Keith meets Lance’s eyes again. Their horses are still walking at a slow pace side by side, but it's like he's suddenly got tunnel vision with shaggy brown hair and the deepest blue eyes he’s ever seen at the center of it. "I'd wager you have." he dismisses.

"I suppose we'll agree to disagree."

Keith finds himself fighting an incredulous scoff. He knows the kind of prosecution Lance has been faced with - he's seen the riots all over Redania, in Oxenfurt, bleeding into Novigrad. He knows the stench of burning flesh, the cries of mages and sorceresses as they burn at the stake. It's true that Keith has known tragedy, but never to this degree. Never the brutality of Lance's reality.

"Yes," he murmurs, finding himself drowning in a sea of blue. "I suppose we will."

-x-

They ride for a few hours before Lance asks to stop next to a little stream running through the woods against the face of a cliff.

"Hungry," Lance says sheepishly, dismounting his horse before stretching his long limbs.

It's weird traveling with someone who isn't Shiro, or even Adam, for that matter. He's used to constant, consistent travel. Snacking on the back of his horse when the need calls for it. Witchers don't need sustenance nearly as often as regular folk do.

He had, however, as his stomach so-kindly reminds him, skipped breakfast that morning.

"All right, give me a second," he says, witcher senses flashing on again as he scans the area they're at. It's dense with trees and shrubs; the sounds of the babbling brook are soothing, but Keith concentrates harder, fine-tuning his hearing. He feels a hum in the distance, the presence of life.

_ Ahh, there you are_.

A small flock of deer passing through, some 200 feet to the north-east.

He reaches for the crossbow strapped to his back next to his sheathed swords. "I'll be back. Wanna get a fire started?”

Lance grins, shooting him an enthusiastic thumbs up. "On it!"

-x-

"Man, I'm traveling with _ you _ next time I go anywhere!" Lance says around a mouthful of venison about two hours later. They're sitting inside a small alcove Lance had found whilst Keith had been hunting, hidden away by rogue shrubs at the base of the cliff. "Professional monster slayer _and _ master chef? You're like, the whole package. 'S not fair."

"All part of the job," Keith says easily, downing his goblet in one gulp. Lance had produced the goblets and a fancy-looking bottle (with a label reading 'Erveluce' that Keith had immediately recognized as expensive wine imported from Toussaint) from the little bag strapped across his chest. "I don't usually take the time to cook when I'm on the road, however. Count yourself lucky."

"What do you survive on, then? Cured meats? Nuts and wild berries?" Lance questions, ever curious.

Keith scoffs. "You think I have the coin for that shit?" he chuckles, shaking his head. "That's cute."

"Come on," Lance says incredulously. "Isn't monster slaying a money-heavy gig?"

"Not during wartime, it's not," Keith says around another bite. "I'm lucky to score 50 crowns every few weeks lately, and anyway, witchers need to think frugally. Saving every bit of gold to survive the winter is priority."

"Well then… what do you eat when you're traveling?" Lance asks hesitantly, like he's afraid to know the answer.

Keith shrugs nonchalantly. "You'd be surprised how good raw meat can taste when you're truly starving."

Lance sputters over his wine. "Excuse me, _ what_?"

"What, don't they teach you at Ban Ard how to properly gut and skin deer and rabbits?" Keith asks with a smirk, inwardly blaming his unusually playful demeanor on the Erveluce.

"Uh," Lance blinks. "No. They absolutely don't."

"Shame," Keith remarks dryly, downing the last of his wine in one gulp. "Useful life skill."

Lance chews quietly, nodding in acknowledgement, and Keith idly notices that even whilst sitting cross-legged on the ground, robes rumpled from traveling for a few hours and combat before that, he radiates grace and poise. He wonders if it‘s his upbringing or some sort of trick. "...You could teach me." 

"Teach you?" 

"To survive in the wild," Lance clarifies, not meeting his eyes. "I could clearly use some instruction, and who better to show me the ropes than a witcher?"

Keith blinks, considering the proposition; it would entail a more permanent traveling arrangement. Keith has only traveled extensively with Shiro and Adam before. What would it be like to spend whole days with Lance? Would he be able to keep up with Keith? Not to mention contracts...

He purses his lips. "I don't know, Lance…" he trails off, doubtful. "I'm not sure it's a great idea."

"I'm a good travel buddy!" Lance amends quickly. "I wouldn't hold you back or anything! I can even help you with your contracts, no need to split the gold or anything! I can pull my weight, hold my own really well, you know."

Keith holds back a smile as he recalls their fight from earlier that morning. "I know, I was there." He sobers up for a second, setting the goblet down on the mossy ground with a sigh. "Still, I’m not sure you know what you’re asking for, Lance. We've led different lives, you and I. This kind of lifestyle isn't for just anyone - sacrifice paves our Path."

Lance mulls over Keith’s words for a minute before sighing. “I know a thing or two about sacrifice myself, Keith.” His voice is tired, and meeting his eyes, there’s wisdom there Keith hadn’t anticipated. Well beyond his years.

_ It’s different_, Keith wants to argue. “Get some rest,” he says instead, voice softer than he’d intended as he stands up from the boulder he’d been using as a chair. “I’ll take first watch.”

He doesn’t wait for Lance to reply as he readjusts the straps across his shoulders and makes his way to the mouth of the cavern.

Though he doesn’t see it, his senses tell him Lance stares after him.

-x-

The Inn at the Crossroads has changed quite a bit, from what Keith remembers.

Where there had once been people in and out of the establishment, it’s now desolate. The signs of war are everywhere they look - in the peasants milling around outside, in the scent of smoke in the air, in the puddles of rust mixed with mud and shit.

Riding beside him, Lance gasps softly as it all comes into view, horrible visage burning fervently into their minds. “I didn’t think it’d be nearly this bad,” he admits, aghast.

There are a handful of Nilfgaardian soldiers making their rounds, conversing with each other in their tongue. They give both Keith and Lance uncaring looks as they continue on with their patrol.

“Well,” Lance pipes in after the soldiers are some 300 feet away. “At least _ they’re _not after my neck.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Keith says quietly, witcher senses flashing on. He keeps tabs on the soldiers as both he and Lance make their way closer to the inn, taking note of their presence. “Just because they’re not Redanian doesn’t mean they’re on your side.”

“I hate that you’re right,” Lance says with a tired sigh.

They dismount once they reach the inn’s stable. Lance pats his mare affectionately on her neck and plants a small kiss on her cheek. “You behave now, okay Kaltie? I’ll be back soon. Play nice with Kosmo here.”

They scuff their boots on the threshold before making their way inside. Lance’s ears and medallion are hidden, Keith notes with a strange tinge of what he recognizes as sadness.

The interior of the inn is candle-lit. The smell of beer and ale wafting out to meet them is almost rancid and Keith’s overly-sensitive nose twitches in response.

“Welcome!” the innkeeper calls out from behind the bar where he’s dutifully cleaning a tankard with a rag that’s seen better days. “What can I get fer ye both?”

“Ahh,” Lance glances back at Keith, who shrugs in response. “Just two ales would be wonderful, friend. Thank you.” he says, turning back to the aging man with a friendly smile.

“Two ales comin’ right up!” he says, turning his back on them as he gets their drinks ready. 

They make their way to the bar, pulling out stools and sitting down with heavy sighs. Keith tries not to think about the coin he’s about to spend on a shitty ale before Lance grins sheepishly at him. “So… have you thought more about my offer?” 

“What offer?” 

“You know,” Lance mumbles, looking down at his hands as his fingers pick at a chip in the aged, stained wood. “Traveling together? At least for a while?” 

“Ah, right. That.” Keith says awkwardly, nodding his thanks as the innkeeper sets down a tankard in front of him and one in front of Lance. He waits until the man takes his rag to one of the tables in the far corner and starts making his cleaning rounds before he speaks again. “You’re free to do as you wish, Lance. I just can’t promise your safety.” He takes a drink, the ale acrid on his tongue and burning down his throat as he swallows. “Fuck, I can barely promise my own.”

“W-wait,” Lance blinks, bewildered. “Truly? I can travel with you?”

“It’s not safe,” Keith reiterates firmly. “You’d be better off holing up somewhere. At the rate the war is going, I’d say Nilfgaard will come out on top. It won’t be long before witch hunters are drafted, too. The Eternal Fire can’t keep Radovid out of their ranks forever, as much as they’d like to think they can. He might hate mages and sorceresses, but I’d wager he’d detest losing the war to Emhyr tenfold. The raids and hunts will eventually stop - they’ll have to with less manpower.”

Lance is quiet, sipping on his ale as Keith continues. “I have to keep making my rounds through Novigrad and Oxenfurt. That’s where the biggest contracts are. You’ll be in danger the second we get within the outskirts of either. Are you really okay with that?”

An almost bitter chuckle escapes Lance’s throat. “I’ve been in constant danger since The Eternal Fire opened its fucking mouth, Keith. I have ways to keep myself hidden in plain sight, you know. How do you think I’ve survived this long? By staying in my cottage, wasting away with my thumb up my ass, playing with my grimoire?” 

It’s the most upset Keith has seen and heard Lance. He shakes his head. “Of course not,” he argues back, voice low. He chances a glance around the inn, making sure they’re not being overheard. The few patrons here seem to be minding their own business, drowning their sorrows in alcohol. Keith looks back at Lance. “But you were _ hidden_. Protected. If something goes wrong, I won’t be able to keep you safe, Lance. Not if we have a repeat of yesterday morning, and definitely not if we come across a bigger caravan.”

“I refuse to hide any longer,” the conviction Lance’s voice throws Keith for a loop. “There might be something more for me out there. Helping other people in my situation, getting them to safety. I can’t sit around and wait for the war and the riots to end. It’s cowardly. If I’m gonna die, I wanna go down fighting.”

The resounding respect he’d started feeling for Lance multiplies tenfold, and the warm bloom of _ something _ he’d felt in his gut earlier seems to intensify as he gauges the determination in the mage’s voice. He finds himself scoffing in something like awe.

“You can do as you wish,” he repeats, and even though he knows it’s a bad idea, stupidly dangerous, the prospect is almost inviting. He begins to feel excitement pooling in his gut. “I won’t stop you if that’s what you really wanna do. I just need you to be aware of the risk you’re taking.”

The smile Lance gives him is almost blinding. _ Like magic in its own right_, Keith thinks to himself in awe. “You won’t regret it, I promise! Hell, I’ll even make your life easier!”

Keith can’t help the tiny, broken smile he gives in return, despite the nervous churning of his stomach. He raises his tankard. “To making my life easier,” he says jokingly.

Lance laughs openly, mirth in his eyes. “To making your life easier!” he declares as he taps Keith’s tankard with his own and they both take a gulp.

The innkeeper finishes his rounds about then, filthy rag over his shoulder as he steps behind the bar. “Can I ye gentlemen another?” 

“Ah,” Keith says before Lance can interfere. “No, that’s all right, thank you, but...” he hesitates, unsure how to go about asking the question that’s on the tip of his tongue. “Can you tell us what’s the, uh, political climate looking like around here?”

The innkeeper sighs heavily, leaving against the bar with both hands. “Ugly,” he says quietly, moustache twitching and thick eyebrows setting in a sad frown. “Most folk tend to avoid this area. Black ‘Uns everywhere, see. Ye both pro’bly seen a few parading ‘round like they own the damn place, ploughin’ bastards, the whole lotta ‘em.”

Keith is almost surprised at the contempt the innkeeper seems to show so freely - it’s idiotic and dangerous to be so openly critical of Nilfgaard, especially in an area controlled by them, where trees themselves have ears. “What about Redanian troops? Or witch hunters? They been seen around this area?” Keith questions instead, feeling Lance tense next to him. 

“Nay, ‘n I don’t reckon we will ‘nytime soon, lad,” the aged man says. “Whoresons, aye, those bloody Redanians, but theys not as fuckin’ stupid as they look.”

“Pretty damn close, though…” Lance grumbles under his breath, softly enough that only Keith is privy to it. He clears his throat innocently, jumping in the conversation. “Have you heard of any villages in the area they might be lurking around in? We’re uh… trying to circumvent any possible bloodshed.” 

“Not that I’ve caught wind of, nay,” the innkeeper responds, and then chuckles before he says. “You’d have better luck being a mage in Oxenfurt with a goal like that, laddie.”

Keith shoots Lance a discreet look as the mage purses his lips awkwardly, as if attempting to summon a smile. “Ah, yes; quite a bad time to be a magic user, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically, voice tight before he takes a large gulp of his tankard. 

“What of Novigrad, then?” Keith steps in, setting his own ale down.

“Can’t say I’ve heard much, other than the same bullshit going on in Oxenfurt. Not as bad, ‘course, since Novigrad remains free ‘n all, but them Redanian bastards been making themselves comfortable there from what I hear, kicking non-humans out of their hovels in the outskirts of the city. Some roam the streets, helping the blasted witch hunters look for prey. ‘S not pretty.” 

Keith frowns as the words register in his mind: Novigrad holds a special place for him - it’d been where he’d met Shiro nearly ten years prior, while hunting for his first contract on his own. An unpleasant chill runs down his spine as he imagines the cheerful streets stalked by Redanian scum, pulling non-humans and mages alike out of their abodes, sullying the shopping square with pyres and stakes. It sickens him. He feels his hand tighten around the tankard dangerously.

The door flies open, banging loudly against the wall as heavy boots enter the inn. The tavernkeep straightens up, squinting at the newcomers in the dim light.

“Greetings!” he calls out to them. Keith can tell, even without his witcher senses, that there’s four of them. “What can I get ye?” 

A thick Nilfgaardian accent responds. “Four tankards of ale, if you please.”

“Aye, make yerselves comfortable, gents,” he says with a nod and turns back to Keith and Lance. “What about ye? Change yer mind, want anything else?”

“No, we’re quite all right,” Lance says with a smile, reaching into his bag and extracting ten crowns. He sets them on the table. “For our drinks, and for being candid with us.”

The innkeeper’s eyes widen like saucers in disbelief. “May Melitele shine peace and light on your journey, sirs!” he rasps gratefully, pocketing the gold and turning to get the order for newcomers.

Lance smiles warmly before he stands and turns to leave, followed by Keith; he now sees the party that had come in earlier is a different Nilfgaardian platoon, sitting in a corner and talking amongst themselves in their own tongue. Some of them shoot Keith specifically filthy looks, eyes zeroed in on the medallion hanging limply around his neck and over his armor.

They pay no mind and head outside, where their horses await them, enjoying respite from travel by treating themselves to copious amounts of hay provided by the Inn. “So, where to now?” Lance asks as he leads Kaltenecker away from the small stable before mounting her fluidly.

Keith whistles for Kosmo, who raises his head, ears perking up before walking towards him. Keith follows suit, hoisting himself up easily. “Probably need to stay away from bigger settlements - at least for now,” he says voice thoughtful as they direct their horses in the direction of the infamous Hanging Tree. “It’ll be safer to stick to villages and outposts instead.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!” Lance says, and they both take off at a light trot.

-x-

“God, this is awful…” Lance says, voice mournful, and Keith has to agree.

The sight that greets them is not an unfamiliar one - the large bare bones of what was once a beautiful, majestic oak now stands as a testament of Nilfgaard’s rule over this sector of Velen - a crude mix between resting place and gallows.

What’s unfamiliar this time is the sheer number of corpses hanging from the thick branches. It’s one of the most gruesome sights Keith has ever seen. A shiver runs down his spine at the ghastly image. “It is. But it’s war,” he says, tone somber.

He feels Lance’s eyes on him as he keeps his straight ahead, directing Kosmo as far away as he can from it, the horizon bright ahead of them.

“Have you ever seen something like that before?” Lance asks quietly after a few minutes.

“No,” Keith answers almost immediately. “Not like this. Not to this degree.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a witcher, Lance,” he responds tacitly. “We don’t often meddle in human affairs. The silver sword on my back is reserved for monsters only.”

“Ahh!” the mage exclaims suddenly, and Keith glances at him in curiosity. “That reminds me! I’ve been meaning to ask you about your swords, too.”

“What about them?” Keith retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, you’ve just answered part of it,” Lance says thoughtfully. “But… what’s the advantage of having two of them?”

Would the answer frighten Lance? Keith purses his lips in hesitation. The fact of the matter is that if Lance is to travel with him, Keith reasons, he’ll see them both in action. Might as well get over it now. “Silver for monsters,” he says matter-of-factly. “...And steel for humans.”

“Ooookay,” Lance says after a breath, voice awed. “That’s possibly the most badass thing you’ve ever said.” 

Keith resists the urge to smile as they continue on their way. 

-x-

They get to the small village of Mulbrydale by the time the sun starts to set. 

“I’ve never been to this part of Velen before!” Lance says in excitement, looking around. The village is destitute as all of Velen seems to be, but the mage’s enthusiasm is the same as ever. “Look at all the celandine and blowball growing around here! Do you think they’d care if I took some for the road?” 

“Doubt it,” Keith says as he dismounts quickly. “Peasants all throughout Velen see folk dressed in something other than rags and they think you’re royalty. As long as you’re not looting their personal gardens, you should be fine.”

Lance nods, absorbing the information like a sponge. “Right, no, of course I wouldn’t do that! I have my own little garden at home, you know; I know how mad I’d be if someone came and stole all my beggartick - that shit’s hard to grow!”

Keith smiles as they lead their horses through the village - it’s been awhile since he’s passed through Mulbrydale, but he recalls the notice board had been full to the brim last time; he holds out hope the same will be true today.

Peasants mill around, some paying them no mind as they make their way to the heart of the village, others carrying on with their chores as normal, making use of the sun’s last rays.

“There’s no inn here for us to stay at,” Keith tells Lance as they near the notice board. “We’ll have to rough it again tonight. Hope that’s not a problem.” 

Lance shakes his head, crooked smile on his face. “Not at all.” 

Keith scans the notices nailed to the board with interest. “Really? I thought you’d be dying to sleep in a bed by now.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance shrug nonchalantly as Keith busies himself by plucking a promising contract off of the aged, abused wood. “I mean sure, I miss my pillow, but I don’t mind, honestly,” he’s saying, voice airy. “It’s kind of cool, getting to experience the wilderness like a witcher. I almost feel like a badass myself.”

Keith looks up from the parchment in his hand - a possible botchling on the loose in the next village over, promising almost 80 crowns in pay - and meet’s Lance’s earnest eyes before the witcher looks away in embarrassment.

“Give yourself more credit,” Keith says gruffly, stuffing the contract in his hip pouch without preamble. “You’ve held your own in battle against _ nekkers_. Not just anyone can lay claim to that.”

A small, pleased smile starts edging at the corners of the mage’s pursed lips and Keith can see a tinge of pretty red staining his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, darkening the freckles there. “You… you really think so?” he asks quietly.

“I wouldn't have let you tag along if I didn’t think you could hold your own, Lance. Like I said, _ I _can’t promise your safety. But it’s clear you can.”

The red on his face intensifies in the sunset; It’s a wonderful combination, Keith thinks offhandedly, the glow of the golden rays against rich brown red-stained skin. It’s beautiful.

“I--um,” Lance stammers, sinking into the shimmery fabric of his silver cloak, but Keith catches the ghost of a smile on his lips before his face disappears as he turns away from him. “Thank you, Keith. That’s… well, that means a lot coming from someone like you.”

He doesn’t know how to respond - he’d only stated an observation, something he’d witnessed and grew to truly respect. “C’mon, then,” he grumbles, clearing his throat. “Let’s find somewhere to hole up for the night.”

-x-

“Greetings,” Keith says the next morning, voice and face neutral. Lance stands a few feet behind him, watching him work silently. “I’m sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of the town curer?”

The old woman Keith’d approached nods, depositing the dead chicken she’d been defeathering in a bucket in front of her. She stands up from the tree stump she’d been using as a stool, reaching for the rag on her shoulder. “Aye, you’ll find ‘im yonder past the orchard deep’n the forest, about 3 miles out, ‘n the hovel near the broken cart,” she says, pointing a crooked finger in the direction opposite of where they’d come from. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Keith says politely. He notices Lance bow his head in respect slightly before following along behind Keith. 

“So,” Lance starts as they pick their way through the mud on their horses. “What kind of contract is this?”

Keith reaches into his pouch again, producing the contract, now wrinkled at bit, and hands it to the mage. “Apparently, something’s been terrorizing pregnant women in the area,” he responds as Lance’s sharp eyes scan the parchment. “Sounds like a botchling, but it could very well be anything.”

Lance blinks, glancing up at Keith. “A botch-what?”

“Botchling - they’re cursed souls created from the improper disposal of unwanted, miscarried children.”

Lance pales. “Fuck, that’s… horrible.” he murmurs, looking back at the yellowed contract in his hands. “How do you know it’s a botchling, aside from the targeted victims? Looks like the locals think it’s some sort of vampire…”

“That’s why, actually,” Keith says. “Botchlings are savvy - they sap pregnant women of their strength. Once the victim is completely defenseless, the little leeches feed off their blood, killing both her and her unborn child.”

“Gods,” Lance says, pursing his lips. “Have you dealt with them before? How do you break the curse?”

“Hmph,” he chuckles lightly in remembrance. “Once, yeah, years ago. Helped my brother out with a contract in Oxenfurt.” That had been the first time Shiro had admitted to needing his help in cracking a case. Keith remembers how satisfying it’d been, rubbing it in his face before they both realized neither had any idea how to actually break the curse.

“You have a brother?” the curious lilt in Lance’s voice is present yet again, and Keith finds it peculiar he’s beginning to grow almost fond of it.

“Ahh,” Keith says, stumbling over his words a bit, both at the revelation he’s just had and because, well. It’s unique, the type of bond he and Shiro share. “Not quite like you’re probably thinking,” he says carefully.

“Well, we have some time, unless you’d rather not talk about him...?”

Keith finds himself smiling, thinking of Shiro meeting up with Adam somewhere near Kaer Morhen before the two make their way to the witcher keep. “No, I don’t mind. It’s just a bit complicated, but to make a long story short, he’s my brother by choice, not by blood,” he says. “We met on the Path, in Novigrad. Shiro had just returned from Skellige and I was in the area looking for my first job.”

He remembers it like it was yesterday, his mind’s eye projecting a clear image of a Shiro from nearly ten years ago, shock of white hair amongst black cropped locks; a kind, encouraging smile he’d never seen on the face of a witcher before that day. “I was an idiot and thought I could take a katakan out on my own when I should’ve been sticking to wild dog infestations or drowners. Anyway, he saved my life, helped me complete the contract, and let me keep the full reward without an ulterior motive; we’ve been close ever since.”

“I see,” Lance says, and Keith thinks he can hear a smile in his voice. “Is… is he your only family?”

“You could say that,” Keith nods. “I wouldn’t really know, though. I don’t remember my parents. Most witchers don’t. We’re usually products of The Law of Surprise.”

“The Law of-- but isn’t that custom _ ancient_?” Lance inquires, bewildered. 

“It is,” Keith responds quietly. “Old as humanity itself, most people wager.”

There’s a weird feeling blooming in his chest - he’s been having more and more of those lately, whatever they are. This time, he figures it’s just because he’s talked so much about himself - something he’s never truly done with anyone aside from Shiro and by extension, Adam. But here he is, telling this near-stranger about his brother, about his lack of family growing up. He purses his lips. What is wrong with him?

“I’m sorry,” Lance says earnestly. “Growing up without your family, being offered as a boon for something that had nothing to do with you… I know I wouldn’t have fared as well as you have.”

Keith is quiet, processing his words. “I don’t think about it. My earliest memories are of Dyn Marv, learning how to skin a deer before I could even read. Self-defense lessons once the caravan stopped for the night.” The strange feeling in his chest grows and grows, encompassing him, bleeding into his arms and legs, crawling up his neck and down his spine. It makes his stomach churn.

“Caravan? I thought… well, I thought all witchers had a keep of some sort?”

_ Ah, fuck, _ Keith thinks as he realizes his slip-up. Lance, up to that point, hasn’t once brought it up; the medallion hanging over his armor, so he’d been keen on avoiding the topic all-together. “...Not all witcher Schools adhere to the same modus operandi,” he says quietly, carefully.

“I see,” Lance hums. “I think… I understand. You’re part of the School of the Cat, aren’t you? I _ thought _ your medallion depicted a Cat, but I wasn’t sure. What sets the Cats apart?”

Keith feels tension rising up his spine - he doesn’t like talking about his School - he’s barely talked to _ Shiro _ about it, about the contempt he faces day in and day out. About the scorn and ridicule that comes with his medallion.

“...That’s a long story, Lance.” He dismisses, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. “Let’s save that for later, yeah?” his tone is dismissive and he hopes Lance gets the gist, that he drops the subject.

“Oh,” there’s a certain type of understanding lacing his voice. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I just… I know hardly anything about your world, your reality. It’s kind of fascinating, you know? But I get the feeling I may have skirted a line, and I’m sorry.”

The innocence and earnest tone of the mage’s voice is enough to disarm Keith. Does he really not know? It’s hard to gauge - he doesn’t know Lance well enough to tell lie from truth yet. But his instincts tell him it’s okay. They tell him Lance is trustworthy, just like they told him Shiro was nearly a decade ago; just like they told him Adam was a good person when he started courting Shiro, and his brother had been hesitant.

They’ve never been wrong, never led him astray. So maybe…

Maybe it’s okay.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, working to build up the nonchalance in his voice. _ It’s okay, _ he wants Lance to read between the lines. _ I trust you_. “I’m just… not used to talking about it.”

Lance nods thoughtfully. “Right, you said that earlier. Still, feel free to let me know when to stop, yeah? I just… I get excited,” he says sheepishly. “It’s such a different world from what I’ve experienced, you know? It’s hard, resisting the curiosity to know more, but I’ll tone it down!”

He’s so sincere, so honest and open. Keith can’t resist the tiny, crooked smile that finds its way to his lips. “Thanks, Lance. But really, it’s fine. If something _ does _ cross a line, I’ll let you know. Now come on, let’s go catch us a botchling.” He turns away from the mage and looks out back to the Path: the orchard is to his right, at the edge of the woods, where the line of trees gets thicker and shadows govern despite the steady sunlight bearing down on them.

-x-

By the time they get to the small settlement, just an outpost with no name, really, it’s mid-morning. The curer in the woods had advised them of the injuries he’d seen, how horrible the sight of the corpses of the women had been.

“Blood sucked right out, it was,” the old man recalls in a weak croak. “Never seen nothin’ like it, until the next night, when it happened again.”

“I see,” Keith says thoughtfully, committing it all to memory. “Tell me, do you know of anyone in the area that recently miscarried?”

“Aye,” the curer says sadly. “Sweet, young lass, not older than 15 winters. Coming back from Novigrad with her mum,” he sighs, and Keith frowns, feeling he like he knew where the anecdote was going. “Ran into errant soldiers and… well. She returned with child, and without a mother.”

Beside him, Lance quietly hisses out in anger. He feels it too, the bile rising up his throat. It’s strange that he feels so deeply impacted, and he wonders if maybe he’s becoming more and more attuned to Lance’s own emotions.

“Didn’t want it, naturally. Came to ask for remedies, for ways to rid herself of the burden she felt she carried. Haven’t seen her in a fortnight.” he shakes his head sadly. 

“Where can I find her?” Keith asks solemnly. 

The curer gives them directions and sends them off with well-wishes. The second they step outside the small hovel, Lance sighs heavily, running a hand over his face tiredly. “That poor girl,” he murmurs, sounding pained.

“As horrible as this is…” Keith mutters, shaking his head. “I’m almost certain a botchling is the result of this. She must’ve been successful in her abortion; can’t say I blame her for not wanting it,” he says somberly.

“Was… was the other botchling you dealt with like this too?” Lance asks in a small voice. “Was it also the result of rape?”

“No,” Keith responds as they mount their horses and head in the direction of the girl’s home. “That was purely a man and his mistress attempting to hide their affair from the man’s wife.” 

“Gods,” Lance intones. “People are garbage.” 

“That they are,” Keith agrees before scoffing. “And everyone wonders why witchers stick to monster slaying.” 

-x-

They’d found that the teen girl had indeed aborted successfully. She had buried her unborn child behind her house, unnamed. 

“What do we do now?” Lance asks as the girl stands in front of them, face tear-stained. 

“_Aymm Rhoin_,” Keith says. “If we manage to successfully turn it into a lubberkin, it’ll break the curse and bring protection and peace upon your household instead.”

“An elven naming ritual?” Lance asks in confusion. 

Keith nods. “The child needs to be given a name and proper burial beneath the family’s threshold,” he looks back down at the girl. “The other option… is to kill it.” 

“Is he… is he sufferin’?” she asks in a broken voice, eyes wild.

Keith doesn’t sugar-coat it. There’s no reason to. “He’s been cursed,” he says instead, hoping that’ll answer her question. “Either way we go about this, he’ll find rest. But you have to decide what you want us to do. I can’t make that choice for you.”

She buries her face in her hands. Keith feels Lance’s tension from just standing next to him. The mage approaches the girl slowly, placing a hand on her back. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” he says sadly. “You did what was right for you.” 

The girl wails, broken sobs that tug at Keith’s impassive heart. He notices Lance’s eyes are misting a bit as well and looks away, feeling that odd tinge in his chest once more. 

“But now we have to do what’s right for the little one. Whatever you decide, we’ll be here to help you,” he continues softly. Keith tries to not notice the lone tear rolling down his cheek and fails. 

“I… I want him to rest,” she says after a minute or so. “I want him to find peace. I didn’t want him to hurt… That’s why I couldn’t have him, I couldn’t put him through that…”

Lance pats her shoulder comfortingly and looks up at Keith. “So we perform the _ Aymm Rhoin_, then,” he says resolutely. 

“Very well,” Keith says with a nod. “Let’s get to work.”

-x-

“How does this all work, then?” Lance asks a few hours later. The girl is busy digging a small grave in the threshold of her home while Lance and Keith look on solemnly. The sky’s long darkened.

“We find the botchling, calm him down with Axii, and bring him back here to be named. At midnight, I’ll walk her through the ritual, and she’ll bury him. In a day’s time, he should turn into a lubberkin. That’s all there is to it.” 

“Much simpler than I thought it’d be,” Lance admits sheepishly. “I hope this gives both her and her child a peace of mind.”

“I think it will,” Keith murmurs. “Lubberkins are guardian spirits. He’ll keep her safe.” 

Lance smiles, bundling himself him further in his coat. The air has the bite of winter to it. 

-x-

The botchling is as ugly as Keith remembers the last one had been. If the ghastly visage at The Hanging Tree had been gruesome, there are truly no words to describe the sight before them now.

His appearance is that of a partially-decaying fetus, skin red and angry, small deformed features twisted with viciousness and malice. He writhes in his mother’s arms, hissing every so often, but under Axii, he doesn’t attack. 

They’d found him prowling the fields the next village over, crawling and pulling himself along the dirt and mud at an abnormal speed. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed them approaching, giving Keith ample time to subdue him with a well-placed Axii. 

“All right,” Keith says as the girl cradles the botchling to her chest. “Repeat after me…”

She nods as fat tears roll down her cheeks once more, sobs wrecking her small frame. From a distance, Keith can see Lance is attempting to reign in his own emotions as well. “By the powers of earth and sky…”

“B-by the power of earth and s-sky…” she says, her voice trembling as she supports the deformed head under a shaking arm. 

“By the world that was to be your home…”

The girl needs a second to swallow the cry about to leave her throat and when she speaks again, her voice is nothing but a whisper. “By… by the world that was to be your home…”

“Forgive me, you who came but who I did not embrace…” Keith continues, and he feels something in his chest stir as Lance holds a fist to his mouth and looks away. 

“Forgive me,” the girl wails, cradling the struggling botchling to her chest tightly. “You who came but who I did not embrace…”

“...I name thee - say his name - and embrace thee as my son.” 

It takes her a minute to regain her composure, her grief is so great. “I-I name thee James and embrace thee… as my son!” the second the name leaves her lips, the botchling ceases movement and stills completely. 

“You can lay him to rest now.” Keith says softly, stepping back to give them some privacy. The girl clutches James to her chest for a few seconds before pulling back, placing a small kiss on his forehead, and laying him down gently in the grave she’d dug earlier.

Keith sighs, feeling exhaustion creeping in. He makes his way to Lance, who’s busied himself wiping his face and sniffling quietly. “How you holding up?” he asks.

The mage gives a watery smile. “I’ve, uh. Well, I’ve been better. That was brutal.”

Keith glances back at the girl, still working to finish the burying process. “...Yeah. I don’t remember feeling this emotional last time. This one… this one hit harder than I expected it to.”

He feels blue eyes on him, questioning, wondering, but for once, Lance doesn’t ask a question. He just pats Keith on the back comfortingly, his touch warm. “And now?”

“Now we wait. You’re welcomed to find somewhere to spend the night. I’ll stand guard here and make sure James rises as a lubberkin tomorrow.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, pal,” Lance gripes and when Keith looks back at him questioningly, there’s a small grin on his face. “If you’re staying out here, then I am too. I’ll keep you company.”

He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t; he blinks and nods off-handedly. The girl approaches them then, holding herself, sniffling. Her arms and are filthy, covered in dirt, and there are tear tracks running down her cheeks. “Is he… will he be okay now?” she asks timidly, voice hopeful. 

Keith nods. “He should be. We’ll stay out here tonight and make sure he is.” he says. “You should get some sleep. You’ve had a rough few months.” 

Her already bloodshot eyes fill up with tears again. “I don’t know… how to thank you… I’ve nothing to my name, absolutely nothing… But you’ve helped me ‘n my little one so much…”

Lance shakes his head kindly. “Never you mind that. What’s important is that you and James can rest easy now.” 

She nods and with a last thank you, turns and heads inside her home. 

Keith walks over to a spot a few feet away from the freshly-dug grave with Lance hot on his heels. He immediately drops into a meditative pose, eyes closed and senses sharp. The mage sets up to sleep, producing two thick blankets and drapes one over Keith’s shoulders. “Oh, um,” the witcher intones, eyes flying wide open in surprise. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Lance says lightly, reclining against a barrel, his own blanket draped over his thin frame. “Goodnight, Keith.”

“...Goodnight, Lance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a few things to note: Nilfgaard and Redania are the two nations that are at war, just in case you were confused on that! people around velen and throughout the continent refer to Nilfgaardians are "Black Ones/Black Uns." 
> 
> Witch hunters are Redanian, also. 
> 
> the botchling contract in this chapter is a sort of nod to the one in the 3rd game, even though the situations were completely different. the words spoken during the ritual are taken directly from that quest, so now's a great time to state: I DON'T OWN THE WITCHER. does the witcher own my ass, tho? absolutely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiiii....... it’s been a bit, huh 😬
> 
> I’m sorry this chapter’s so late - I got super busy during September and then the horribly-dreaded writer’s block struck in the middle of this chapter. I’ve been trying to claw my way out of this dank hole for awhile and I’m so glad I finally finished this chapter - I hope you enjoy!!!!!
> 
> Special shoutout to the KWS discord server for their relentless support during this entire writer’s block ordeal and dealing with my whiny ass. You all have my heart.
> 
> And SUPER SPECIAL SHOUTOUT to galactiklance for betaing for me. Thank you x1000000
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Lance has never traveled as extensively in as short a time.

Portal traveling is different - you don’t feel the distance in the same way you feel it on horseback, of course. And though he’s fond of his portals, he’s grown to really love being on the Path. 

To be fair, it helps having a witcher for a guide; he knows he would never have gotten as far as he has if it wasn’t for Keith. 

Watching the witcher at work has been an incredible privilege. It’s almost like being back at the academy, in a weird, twisted way, with all the information he’s picked up in the last several weeks. 

Every so often, he thinks back to his hut: how is his little home holding up without him? His garden? It _ is _ winter, so the residing herbs and vegetables are probably dead. But what about the rest of his belongings? Lance knows looters like to roam the fields near Lindenvale. Still, he holds out hope that his house is far enough away from the main road that it’ll be safe. 

“Still with me, Lance?” Keith asks suddenly, bringing him out of his reverie. 

Lance blinks. Ah, right. They’re on the way to Crow’s Perch, horses slowly muddling through the fresh snow. “Yeah, sorry,” he says, throwing the witcher a sheepish smile. “Just got lost in thought for a second,”

“Yeah?” Keith retorts with a raised eyebrow. “Sounds dangerous,”

Lance finds himself chuckling. If someone had told him he’d find himself stupidly fond of Keith’s dry wit, he would’ve denied it, right away. He’d been intrigued by the witcher when first they’d met, of course, but _ fond _? He tries to will the blush off his face at the thought.

“Just, y’know…” he says, voice a little too breezy as he looks away. “Wondering how my fool’s parsley is holding up back at home,”

There’s a long silence from Keith’s end. Lance glances over at his friend - and _ whoa _ , when did he start thinking of the witcher as a _ friend _? Not that it’s not accurate, but… well. His own admission surprises him slightly - and finds him frowning. “...Something wrong, bud?”

“I just…” Keith sighs and meets Lance’s eyes hesitantly. “I’m sorry that you had to leave your home behind,”

That’s… okay, yeah. That’s not what he’d been expecting him to say at all. “It’s not your fault, Keith,” he says firmly. He won’t allow his friend to blame himself over something that had been inevitable. Besides, it’d been Lance that had invited himself to come along and see the contract fulfilled. “What’s done is done. It’s not the end of the world,”

He tries to smile - show him that he means what he says. Keith doesn’t smile back, but his frown does lessen. “Plus,” Lance looks away. “I would never have gotten to come on this wild journey with you otherwise,” he says and immediately curses himself. Crap, he’d actually said that, hadn’t he? Dammit. Stupid nerves.

But his misstep seems to have lessened the tension in Keith’s shoulders. The witcher scoffs quietly, but there’s a small smile dancing on his thin lips. “Well, hope it’s not been, uh. Disappointing. Most people think witcher work is monster-slaying 24/7, but this is the reality of it,” he says, gesturing ahead of them at the Path. “a lot of traveling and saddle-sore,”

Lance grins. “It’s not so bad,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve learned a lot in the process. I can now add ‘deer skinning’ to my resume, so, you know. Not too shabby,”

“Hmm,” Keith intones. “I think ‘werewolf slayer’ sounds better, but whatever works for you,” 

Lance chuckles, but _ fuck_, Keith’s right. He _ did _ land the finishing blow on that werewolf they’d dealt with last week. He palms the hilt of the brand-new silver sword at his hip - they’d found a blacksmith at one of the villages they’d passed by. Keith had brightened up considerably - blacksmiths are a bit of a novelty during wartime, he’d said. 

He’d found a silver short sword in the blacksmith’s stock and just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pick it up. Keith had given him a questioning look but hadn’t said anything in return. It was a smart move - he could help Keith and defend himself without using magic. 

Of course, he had needed instruction on how to wield it - Keith hadn’t minded the improvised sword-fighting lessons, however. 

“You’re a natural,” he’d told Lance after a particularly long sparring session. “You’ve got the basics down. Just remember your footwork - you won’t get as lucky if you trip over your robes in the face of an enemy,”

He’d smiled brightly at the praise then, feeling pride swell in his chest.

“You’re probably right,” Lance finally responds. “Still, my point stands. So don’t go blaming yourself over this, yeah? If you want to point fingers, The Eternal Fire is a good alternative,”

The rest of the evening is spent in friendly conversation; Lance had never in a million years thought Keith would participate in idle chatter - he’d seemed so serious when first they’d met. But there’s a lot he wants to say, Lance notes. It’s clear in the way his amber eyes light up when Lance asks a question or makes an idle comment. 

By the time they get to Crow's Perch, the sun is starting to crest over the hills in the west. The landscape around them is no different than the rest of Velen. He's never been around here before, despite how close they actually are to Lindenvale, but Keith assures him that the area is safe - or rather, as safe as one can be in the current climate.

"So," Lance says as they pass by the guards stationed in front of the bridge. "You mentioned that the Bloody Baron is an acquaintance?" he asks. Keith had mentioned it in passing when they'd neared the area. To Lance’s understanding, the Bloody Baron is the self-appointed ruler of Velen - or rather, the parts of Velen that haven’t already been claimed by either side of the war. 

"In a way," Keith responds with a nod. "he and Shiro have had dealings in the past. There was a contract the Baron contacted Shiro about a few years ago but he wasn't available, so he sent me in his stead," he explains. "Man's a piece of work, but he pays well and takes care of his people.” 

"Damn," Lance remarks. "Do you just happen to have connections everywhere you go?" The question is rhetorical, but he's starting to think it's not entirely inaccurate.

Keith considers it for a second. "Well, it doesn't hurt to get your name out there," he says.

The town - if it can even be called that, Lance thinks - is better-guarded than most other villages. Two more soldiers stand at the gates proper, giving Lance inspecting looks and Keith respectful nods.

"Master witcher," one of them says in greeting. Keith brings Kosmo to a gentle stop. 

"Sergeant Ardal," Keith says with a slight incline of his head.

"T’what do we owe the honor?" he asks, glancing at Lance critically. 

"Just making my rounds," Keith says easily. "Ah, this is my partner, Lance," he adds when he notices the sergeant's beady eyes on the mage. 

The temperature out is nearly freezing but suddenly Lance feels like he's burning up. _ Partner_, Lance thinks to himself, his insides suddenly jittery. _ He called me his partner... _

"Master Lance," the sergeant addresses. "T’be traveling with The Red Lion o’ the North, ye must be formidable in yer own right,"

"U-um, thank you," he stammers, suddenly flustered and self-conscious. He can feel Keith's amber eyes on him. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,"

The sergeant nods once before turning back to Keith. "I presume yer here t’see the Baron?"

"Right," Keith responds. "Just wondered if you have any work for me. Been running a bit dry lately,"

"Aye, we've got some stuff ye might want t’ take a look at," he says as he turns around. "Follow me,"

It's bustling here, Lance realizes as they make the slow trek in the town, horses at the stable. Though the people here are peasants, they're in higher spirits than the rest of Velen. It's both heartening and a bit confusing, but it must be the Baron's work.

"How're things here?" Keith asks as they another set of wooden gates. It's set up almost like a fort of some sort, with lookout posts and guards patrolling every so often, crossbows held tightly in their hands.

"Same as always," the sergeant replies. "Keepin' to ourselves, mostly. Black Uns ain't keen on makin' the trek up here too often to keep an eye on us, ‘n Redania's been keepin' their sorry ass away from these lands fer awhile, now,"

A sort of vindictive pleasure blooms in Lance's chest at the news. For as much grief and devastation Nilfgaard has brought Temeria, they're keeping Radovid and his seething Redanians at bay. Maybe Keith had been onto something when he'd said Nilfgaard would win the war.

"And the Baron?" Keith asks, his arm casually brushing up against Lance's as they start climbing the slightly inclined path to the Baron's estate.

"In ‘n out of Crow's Perch, looking after the missus," the sergeant says as he waves at the guards standing watch all around them - a sign to stand at ease. "Her health ain’t been the same since… well, I'm sure ye've heard,"

Lance, confused, raises an eyebrow and looks to Keith, who is nodding grimly. He makes a mental note to ask about that later.

"Well, here ye are," the sergeant says, gesturing to the grand estate.

"Thank you," Keith says before glancing at Lance and jerking his head in the direction of the stairs, signaling that he should follow.

Lance turns to the sergeant again, and finds him already staring, a spark of suspicion in his eyes.

"Ye'd do well to disguise yer friend better, master witcher," the sergeant says idly, eyes rising from their inspection to stare into Lance's. "The very trees have eyes ‘n ears lately, haven't ye noticed?"

The mage feels a cold chill run down his spine as the sergeant suddenly turns on his heel and stalks away, barking orders at his men as he goes.

Belatedly, Lance realizes his heart is racing. The air seems to have gotten thicker with tension. 

He hadn’t realized he’d be so easy to spot. His Ban Ard pendant is sitting snugly in the confines of his pocket, as much as it had pained him to do so, and he’d swapped his favorite silver robe for a muted regal blue he had stashed in his bag.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” Keith murmurs, squeezing gently. It grounds him, how warm and familiar it feels. “I’m here, and I’m with you, okay?”

The words send a flurry of warmth against the dwindling cold of their surroundings. He wants to reach out, wants to squeeze Keith’s hand with his own.

The tension leaves him exhausted, however, and he finds he can’t move his arms from his sides. He glances back with a tired smile, his eyes meeting earnest, open amber, and he knows Keith would put his life on the line to help keep him safe. The thought leaves an uneasy twisting in his stomach. “I know,” he says, voice smaller than he’d intended. He clears his throat and tries again. “Thank you, Keith,” he says, leaning his cheek against the scarred fingers still on his shoulder. 

“C’mon,” the witcher says says, his voice still low. “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

“Right,” he says with a nod, and they make their way up the wooden steps to the estate. 

Keith stays close by Lance’s side, a steady and reassuring presence that seems to tether him.

_ Keith says it’s fine,_ he recites in his head like a mantra. _ He’s here and it’s fine. It’ll be fine. _

He distracts himself by glancing around their surroundings, holding himself back from hanging onto Keith’s armor strap like a child. 

They get through the threshold, Lance noting the fancy-looking sconces and massive oil paintings lining the walls. 

“Master witcher,” a few guards mumble in greeting as they pass by, beady eyes glued to Lance. He makes it a note to make eye contact with every single one of them and smile amicably. Never let them see you afraid, right?

They finally get to the end of the long, ill-lit hall. Keith raps his knuckles firmly and waits expectantly before a growl comes from the confines of the room.

“What is it now, ye brutes?!”

Keith opens the door decisively. “Greetings, Strenger,” he says with a careful bow of his head. From the little Lance can see over Keith’s shoulder, it seems to be some sort of an office, like a study or library of some kind. He gets a quick glimpse at red tapestries hung on the walls and some sort of fur rug on the wooden floor.

“Why, ‘tis the Red Lion come to visit!” the Baron says. Keith opens the door wider, a hand reaching over to tug at Lance’s robes discreetly. “Where ye been hiding, aye?”

Lance sees Keith sigh almost imperceptibly. “Nowhere in particular. Just getting shit done as usual.”

“Brought a friend, have ye?” The Baron asks as he steps around the large oak desk littered with trinkets and all sorts of papers.

“Yes,” Keith says. “This is my partner, Lance,”

And ahhh, there it is again, that word. _ Partner_. He doesn’t know why it throws him for a loop every time Keith refers to him as such, why it continues to fluster him beyond reason. Why it sends a flurry of _ something _ through his chest, like nerves and giddiness. 

“Pleased to meet ye, laddie,” the Baron says in a friendly growl. “Whaddya do? What’s yer specialty?”

“S-specialty?” Lance blinks, put on the spot. He feels a small flash of panic - what is he supposed to say? He’s a mage - magic is his specialty - all he knows, breathes, _ bleeds_. 

“Bit of a Jack of all Trades, Lance,” Keith says, stepping in. Lance eyes glance over at him, and there it is. That feeling again. That warmth and… fondness. “Handy with a sword. He’s saved my hide on several occasions,”

“Aye? T’ain’t no small feat, that,” the Baron remarks, looking impressed. “Well, c’mon in ‘n get comfortable, gents,” he gestures at the chairs placed in front of his desk as he sits himself back down. “What is it that brings ye both to me lands, then? Reckon t’ain’t no social visit,”

“Ah, right, unfortunately not,” Keith says. Lance watches Keith out of the corner of his eye - his face seems to be guarded; not untrusting, but not the sort of openness Lance has grown to be familiar with. “Just making my rounds, but the Sergeant tells me you have work for me?”

“Oh, aye,” the baron says with a nod. Lance gets a strong whiff of liquor from his breath and purses his lips. “Have a few issues just past the bog - somethin’ out there just ain’t right. We had a patrol out there not a fortnight past that shat themselves in the middle o' the damned day, hollerin’ ’bout the ghostly wench down by the abandoned mill.”

“A woman?” Lance asks looking back at the Baron in interest.

“Aye,” the Baron says with a sigh. “Pro’bly a demon, fuck all if I know,” he reaches under his desk and Lance hears a drawer open. He lifts a bottle of liquor out of the cabinet and offers it. “Somethin’ to ward off this blasted chill, witcher?”

Keith declines with a silent shake of his head

The Baron nods, turning to Lance. “And ye, laddie?”

“No, I’m quite all right. Thank you, sir,” Lance says with a polite smile. 

“Suit yerselves,” the Baron says as he refills his glass, already on the table beside him. 

“Is there anything else you can tell us about this woman?” Keith presses as the Baron takes a swig of his liquor.

“Right bitch, she is,” the Baron growls. “Killin’ folk. Interceptin’ merchant carts. I’d blame it on the ploughin’ Redanians if I didn’t know they ain’t got the balls to pull blasted stunts like that. Smelt somethin’ awful, ‘pparently, n’ kept rats fer company,”

“Do any of your men know what happened at the mill? Have any of them seen her?”

“Reckon a few have, aye. Best talk to Ardal. He’ll point ye in the right direction,”

“And the pay?” Keith asks bluntly. Lance chances a nervous look at him - impassive features and relaxed demeanor. Maybe this is the way he and the Baron are used to doing business. Even so, it seems almost... disrespectful. 

“Be willin’ to part with a thousand crowns for yer trouble,” 

Lance quickly looks back at the Baron, stunned: If he’s willing to pay that much, then whoever - or _ what _ ever this woman is really has been giving them a hard time… But still, _ a thousand crowns_?

“Very well,” Keith replies with single nod. “I’ll get what I need from your men, then,” he stands up giving Lance a nod to indicate that he should, too. “Unless you’ve got anything else for me, I’ll get to work,”

The Baron waves them off without another word, refilling his glass as Lance and Keith walk out of the office and head back the way they came. 

“So, what do you think?” Lance asks as they make their way through the long hall. He has a few theories of his own, but picking at Keith’s knowledge of monsters and creatures has truly become one of his favorite pastimes. 

“Need more intel. Hard to say what it is yet, but...” he hesitates as he opens the door, stepping aside and letting Lance through first before closing it behind him. “It could be a pesta, or a noonwraith.”

About a week after their escape from the Lindenvale wilderness, when their adventure together had just begun, Keith had let Lance take a look at his own personal bestiary - an old weathered book chock-full of information on monsters and how to defeat them. There had been added pages - far more than the book originally held - written in a messy scrawl that Lance had guessed to be Keith’s own observations and additional entries. He takes a second to recall the information he’d read about pestaes as well as noonwraiths - the most helpful information coming from Keith’s various notes to himself.

“Hmmm,” he intones, mind flipping through the catalogue of information stored there. “Yeah, I suppose I could see either of those...”

“Mhmm,” Keith assents as they descend the wooden steps. He glances around looking for the sergeant. “Need to know more, though. C’mon, let’s find Ardal and get what we need.”

-x-

The rest of their evening is spent speaking to the few witnesses the Sergeant had pointed them to, and they’d all had the same thing to say - it’d definitely been a woman, and they’d been lucky to get out alive.

“Ugly, she was,” one of the Baron’s men says. He’s tall and lanky, with features like a horse, almost, and Lance thinks he really has no business calling anyone else ugly, but maintains his silence. “Stank somethin’ awful, master, like ye wouldn’t believe. Rottin’ flesh like a corpse, covered in boils ‘n puss, filthy tongue hangin’ out like a soddin’ snake. Rats all around 'er,”

Keith nods, eyes contemplative. “Thanks for the information,” he says as he waves the peasant off.

They come back to the estate to rest for the night with plans to set off the next morning, digesting all the information they’d collected.

“Are you sure it’s okay? Us staying here, I mean?” Lance asks, uncertain; It’s a spacious room, well-decorated. There’s various paintings on the wooden walls, wilted flowers slumped against their vase in a corner table next to a bottle of scotch and two glasses placed beside it. It’s toasty in here as well, thanks for the lit fireplace.

Keith nods. “After the first contract, Strenger offered me one of his many guest rooms during any future stays here. I’ve never made use of it, but I’m starting to feel the start of a nasty saddle sore,”

Something tells Lance that’s not entirely true. In the several months they’ve been traveling together all throughout Velen and White Orchard, Keith has never once complained about saddle sore. It’s not even really been that long since they’d stayed at an inn, now that Lance thinks about it. Maybe he’s doing it for Lance’s benefit - he knows he’s probably looking a little worse for wear himself.

“Okay, well, you can take the bed if that’s the case,” Lance says as he slips out of his cloak. He’ll have to scrub it really well next time he washes it. There are stains from their bout with drowners just yesterday splattered all over it.

“Well, where are _ you _ gonna sleep?” Keith asks, confusion lacing his voice. Lance glances back to look at the witcher, who seems to be in the middle of removing his dual swords and setting them next to the night table on the right side of the bed.

Lance points to the small chaise lounge at the foot of the bed. “This should work just fine,” he says with a small shrug.

Keith frowns. “You’re not sleeping on a _ chair _, Lance,”

The mage rolls his eyes, feeling that strange fondness rise in his chest and up his throat. “It’s a _ daybed_, if anything. Honestly, it’s not a huge deal, Keith. I’ve been sleeping on the ground every other night for the past three and a half months - this’ll feel like paradise.”

“Absolutely not,” Keith shakes his head with a sigh as he begins tugging at the knots holding his armor in place.

Oh. _ Oh_. Keith is undressing. Lance should look away, right? Maybe he should…

“W-well then, um. What would you suggest?” he asks, voice tight as he tears his gaze away. He can feel the tips of his ears burning and feels glad for the cover his hair provides.

The witcher removes the armor that covers his chest, dusting it off without preamble as he shrugs. “Bed’s big enough,” he proposes, shrugging nonchalantly.

Lance can’t help the sputter that leaves his lips as he blinks, befuddled. “I-I mean…” he glances back at the bed, feeling hot all over. “Y-yeah, it’s _ big_, but…”

He feels the full intensity of Keith’s amber eyes on the back of his head. “But what?”

There really isn’t a good reason for Lance’s reaction and vehement opposition. Not one that makes any sense, anyway. He purses his lips before glancing up at Keith again. His blush intensifies when he realizes Keith’s in the middle of removing the burgundy tunic Lance has only gotten glimpses of.

_ Damnit. It’s just Keith! _ He tries telling himself, but his heartbeat is going haywire and his mind is having trouble concentrating on what they’d just been talking about. _ Get a hold of yourself! This is embarrassing! _

“Lance?” Keith asks, lifting the tunic over his head; Lance realizes he got lost in his own thoughts. 

“B-but nothing,” he stammers turning around so his back is to Keith. The small glimpse he’d gotten at that toned, scarred chest… “It’s, um. It’s nothing. I-I… I think I’m just tired,”

_ What the hell’s gotten into me? _ He thinks to himself as he disrobes, keeping his undertunic in place as he starts unlacing his boots.

The slight change to their night rituals throws him for a loop - he’s not used to sleeping at the same time as Keith, but it’s nice, in a way. Not that Keith presence doesn’t make him feel safe (it truly does), but it's a nice change of pace, feeling completely at ease. He doesn’t remember feeling like this even when he’d been back at his cottage.

He sinks into the plush pillows and blankets, burrowing contentedly as Keith does the same.

_ You’re so stupid, of course this wouldn’t change anything, _ he thinks to himself, watching Keith’s face relax little by little, breath by breath. _ It’s… It’s just Keith_.

The familiar, tensed furrow of Keith’s brow is starting to relax into open vulnerability - Lance has never seen anything like it before. He’s seen Keith in meditative poses - “_Witchers don’t really need sleep, _” he’d said when Lance had asked. He’d gone on to explain that sleep, more than anything, is just a way for witchers to unwind - relax after being on the Path for long periods of time. All witchers really need after a long day is several hours of quiet meditation.

There’s something really satisfying and heartwarming about knowing that Keith can relax next to him so fully - enough to fall asleep almost immediately. He allows himself a small smile, his cheeks still burning, before drifting off. 

-x-

When consciousness finds him again, it’s early morning, judging by the cool temperature set in the room. The roaring fire in the hearth is nothing but soft embers now, giving the large suite a dull orange glow.

He stretches out his legs, groaning quietly as his muscles extend.

“Mmm…” a familiar voice intones at the nape of his neck as something tightens around his middle.

His eyes fly open as panic suddenly bubbles up his throat. He stiffens in place, his nostrils flaring and his heart suddenly taking off like a spooked horse.

He forces his eyes to glance down and-- _ yep_. That’s Keith’s arm pulling Lance’s body back into his rock-hard, scarred chest. Those are his legs tangled with Lance’s under the covers. 

_ Nope nope nope nope, abort ABORT-- _

“Lance?” Keith’s voice is raspy and raw from sleep and it sends tingles down Lance’s spine. “Whas’ wron’?”

He doesn’t sound fully awake yet, slurring his speech almost adorably. Lance can feel the brush of soft, chapped lips against the base of his neck and he might actually be dying. This can’t be real, it can’t be his life--

“N-nothing…” He says, attempting to will the heat on his cheeks and the tips of his ears away.

“Go back t’sleep,” Keith mumbles, voice fading, though his grip on Lance’s stomach doesn’t lessen.

It takes him a minute to calm his nerves enough to regulate his heartbeat; he’s in bed with Keith. He’s cuddling with Keith. He’s…

Fuck. The left side of his body’s numb.

He wiggles in place for a second, debating whether to turn on his other side. He knows Keith is _right there_, his chest glued to Lance’s back. But this position’s starting to get _ really _ uncomfortable.

He bites his lip as he turns to his right side, facing Keith. The witcher hums, deep in his slumber again, lifting his arm to allow Lance to turn fully before placing it back on his waist, bringing them now chest to chest.

He looks so peaceful - almost innocent, though it’s strange not seeing that guarded glint in his amber eyes, that intuition in the furrow of his brow.

This man is truly handsome, Lance thinks as he traces his eyes over every orifice of Keith’s face. From the way his dark hair falls over his eyes, tangling in his long lashes, to the slope of his nose and the scar that mars his right cheek down to his jaw. There’s an allure to him that Lance had noticed from the first time they’d met.

The allure that’s gotten them where they are now, if Lance is being honest with himself.

Keith’s arm is still slung over his middle almost possessively, heavy and muscular and scarred.

His own arm is beginning to regain feeling again, albeit slowly; his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and hug Keith back.

Is that inappropriate? He purses his lips, his eyes still scanning every inch the man before him, from his face, to his neck, to his bare chest, down to hips where the blanket hangings loosely. Keith may be cuddling Lance, but he’s also asleep. Lance is fully awake. He knows what he’s doing. Would that be an invasion of privacy? A betrayal of trust?

Fuck. He _ really _wants to do it, though.

Slowly, he lifts his arm and places it over Keith’s waist carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal rather than a sleeping witcher. Though to be fair, Lance thinks with a small grin - Keith’s probably more dangerous than a wild animal, even asleep.

It feels natural, laying in bed with him cuddling up to each other. He must be blushing, but it’s kind of hard to tell with Keith’s heat radiating off of him like an open flame.

He burrows deeper into the pillow as Keith unconsciously brings them even closer. Lance’s forehead pressed against the witcher’s collar bone. Lance tightens his arm and closes his eyes.

Here, in Keith’s arms, with the first rays of the run leaking in through the window and the slowly-dying embers in the fireplace, nothing can touch him.

He smiles again, peaceful, and feels unconsciousness come for him again.

-x-

He wakes up alone, a couple hours later.

There’s a note scribbled in Keith’s familiar handwriting on the back of a contract parchment they’d fulfilled several weeks past detailing he’s out hunting down some breakfast for the two of them and will be back shortly.

Lance smiles at the note, feeling giddy and warm.

He sighs as he reaches for his robes, quickly throwing them on. There’s a mirror set up in a corner. He glances at himself for a few moments, contemplating his appearance. He can’t see a difference - not a substantial one, anyway. The bags under his eyes seem to be gone and there’s a healthy flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the fur blankets and hearth.

He _ feels _ different, though. There’s something in his eyes - an odd twinkle that hadn’t been there before. He purses his lips before he shakes his head, running a hand through his shaggy hair with a sigh. 

Dammit. He’d been doing so well masking his attraction to Keith, keeping things between them professionally friendly. Last night - or rather, earlier this morning - had _ definitely _ been over the line. 

There’s a twinge of guilt in his chest when he thinks of how open and soft Keith had looked, hair falling into his eyes as he slumbered. He’d been unconscious and Lance had taken advantage of it. Had he woken up with Lance in his arms? 

His train of thought is interrupted by the door. Keith nudges it open with his booted foot, hands laden with a loaded tray. “Oh, hey,” he greets easily, small smile on his lips and an almost knowing look in his eye. “Sleep well?” he asks and Lance blinks, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, clearing his throat self-consciously. He glances down at tray to avoid making eye contact - it’s like those amber eyes can read his mind, sense his apprehension and embarrassment. Time to change the subject. “Smells good,” he says, motioning to the food on the tray with a jerk of head. 

“Should be, if Strenger’s henchmen are anything to go by,” Keith says as he sets the tray on the small table in front of the chaise lounge. “So, listen-” the witcher says as he sits down, clearing his throat. Lance purses his lips. Here it comes. He crossed a line, invaded Keith’s space and betrayed his trust. He braces himself. “I was talking to the cook and she said there was a young woman that died of plague earlier this month from the village neighboring the bog, close to the mill,”

Lance blinks, thrown for a loop. That… is not what he’d been expecting to hear. Again. “Yeah?” he says smoothly instead of betraying his confusion. “So… we’re thinking it’s a pesta, then?”

“That’s my guess, yeah,” Keith says, picking up a thick slab of crunchy bacon and taking a big bite. “Everyone that’s had a runin with this specter and survived had similar observations: its stench, boils, rotted skin, and the presence of rats nearby; it checks out,”

Lance sits himself a healthy distance away from Keith on the chaise as well, reaching over to take a slice of buttered toast with jam and a few apple slices. It really shouldn’t be endearing, he thinks to himself as he takes his own bite of breakfast, how incredibly uncouth Keith is when it comes to food. The man stuffs his mouth like it’s going out of style, like it might be his last meal.

Though to be fair, the life of a witcher is unknowable and unpredictable. So maybe that’s it.

Either way, a grown man speaking around a mouthful of bacon shouldn’t look _ this _ sinfully attractive. It’s hardly fair.

“Are plague maidens like other wraiths?” Lance asks after he swallows, attempting to recall the information he’d read in Keith’s bestiary about them.

“Hard to say,” Keith says, swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs and toast before he continues. “War brings a lot of disease along with it. No one is really sure why or where plague maidens manifest. There have only been two documented run-ins with them, and only one of those witchers came out with his life,” Keith sighs, reaching into his satchel for his bestiary. He quickly flips to the desired page.” There’s a few things we can try…” he mumbles, brow furrowed as his eyes scan the book thoughtfully. From his spot beside him, Lance sneaks a peak at the text, swallowing a mouthful of bacon. “...But most of this will be guess work,”

He doesn’t sound thrilled at the prospect, not that Lance can blame him. Knowledge is often a witcher’s most powerful tool, Keith had once told him. “So… What now, then?”

Keith sighs again, this time in mild frustration. “I don’t know,” he says frankly. “Honestly, you should probably sit this one out,”

“W-wait, what?” Lance asks, frowning as he swallows the mouthful of strawberries he’d just been chewing. “Why?”

“If this really is a pesta,” Keith starts seriously. “You’ll be exposed to the diseases it carries. Not to mention how dangerous it is fighting a creature when you’ve got no intel on how to best them. You’ll be at risk, even if I’m able to find its weakness,” he explains. “Which, again, will involve much more guesswork than I'm comfortable with,”

“All the more reason to have an extra set of hands around! And anyway, what’s stopping _ you _ from catching whatever disease it might be carrying?” Lance retorts, affronted. He’d thought they’d put this matter to bed - he thought Keith’d finally seen how well Lance can hold his own in battle. 

“Witcher immunities,” Keith responds, giving him a pointed look. “Which, unfortunately, do _ you _ no favors,”

“Immunities?” Lance asks, offense momentarily forgotten as his curiosity is piqued - he never passes up an opportunity to learn more about witchers and their secrets. “You mean you’re immune to diseases?”

“It’s one of our defenses, yeah,” Keith says. “Don’t change the subject. This is dangerous, Lance. Even for me. There’s a good chance I won’t come back from this one if I’m not extra careful,”

Dread curls deep in Lance’s gut at Keith’s words. “I’m not letting you do this alone, Keith!” He snaps. “I’m coming as your backup and _ that’s that! _” 

Silence. 

They stare at each other for what feels like hours, Lance in upset determination and Keith impassively. 

He will not give in first, he _ won’t. _

Finally, there’s a break in the witcher’s poker face and Lance can see mild irritation poking through. “...Fine,” he acquiesces in an almost growl. “But you need to stick to me like fucking _ wax_, understood?”

Lance nods immediately. “I’m not stupid, Keith,” he says, though he’s aware he’s about to do a very stupid thing. “Of course I will,”

“Great. We leave in five minutes, so get your stuff ready to go,” he says, leaving the plate on the chaise and standing up to grab his dual swords. 

Lance purses his lips.

It’s do or die time.

-x-

Lance will never get tired of watching Keith at work. 

It’s methodical and infinitely fascinating. Keith is very meticulous in his tracking, cat-like eyes glinting in the early hours of the morning. “Footprints... “ he mumbles to himself as they make their way through the underbrush. They’d left their horses behind a safe distance, just in case. “Oh, here, see,” Keith says a little louder. Lance creeps closer to him to observe what it is he’s pointing at. “Rat droppings, and a lot of them,”

Lance looks back up at Keith, about to ask a question, but his train of thought is interrupted by the witcher taking a deep breath, eyes closed as if in deep concentration.

He turns west to the bog, yellowed eyes narrowing. “Found you,” 

“Keith?” Lance asks, not entirely understanding what’s just happened. “Did… did you do you something?”

The witcher glances at Lance. “Ah, right,” he nods. “I guess your nose wouldn’t be able to pick up the stench from this distance,”

Lance blinks quizzically and takes a whiff himself. Nope, nothing but pine and clean forest air.

“Well, I think we were right in our assumption,” Keith says as he begins picking his way through the muddy snow. “Not even alghouls smell like that,”

“How far away, do you think?” Lance asks, hot on his trail. He hopes his voice doesn’t betray the nerves he’s starting to feel prickling at him.

“I’d wager a mile or so. Stay sharp, though. We’re near the bog, there are bound to be foglets and drowners nearby,”

“Right,” the mage says with a nod, and if his hand reaches into his pouch to grip at his Ban Ard symbol with white-knuckled fingers, Keith doesn’t have to know.

-x-

“This is it,” Keith declares in a low murmur. They’re on the outskirts of the bog, standing in front of an old, dilapidated shack. Keith glances at Lance. “It’s not too late to turn around, you know,” he says softly. When Lance meets his eyes, he finds something like concern swirling in molten amber. 

He feels his face heat up. “N-not a chance,” he says, cursing himself for the nervousness he can hear in his own voice. He clears his throat. “You’re stuck with me to the end,”

Keith glances at him with a curious tilt of his head, as if surveying him. Whatever he finds there, he seems to deem worthy, and he sighs with a nod. “All right, then. Let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been 84 years but,,, i haven't lost the drive to finish this story by a long shot. i was just dealing with a lot and struggling with this chapter but replaying tw3 always helps. 
> 
> sorry for how short this chapter is. i wish i could've made it longer so the wait would've been worth it at the very least, but i'll be working very hard on chapter 6 and hope to post it soon. 
> 
> all the thanks in the world to my amazing beta for this chapter, [EnlacingLines!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnlacingLines/profile) you deserve a million hugs and all the love for always being so supportive and so willing to help me look over my stuff ilysm
> 
> also this chapter is for one of my best friends Aly because she constantly tells me how much she loves this au and how excited she is to read more and the cheerleading is really what got me thru to finish this chapter ilysm

The stench is unimaginable. 

Keith’s sensitive nose almost hurts as he and Lance inspect the shack from the outside, making sure to remain as vigilant as they can.

_ Fresh footprints… Multiple sets of working boots. All adults. Probably the Baron’s henchmen.  _ He glances over towards the door and crouches down as his witcher senses flash again.  _ Disturbed mud. A tussle, maybe? Rat prints and more droppings… _

He can hear movement in the shack; rapid little feet pattering against rotting wood, rodent squeaks, and something like rustling cloth. Like a curtain swaying in the breeze. There’s no solid presence emanating from the inside of the shack, but he had kind of expected that—there’s little known about pestae, but the few accounts from past witchers seemed to agree they have properties similar to wraiths and other specters. Meaning he’ll be at a disadvantage in defending against it.

_ Dammit.  _

He makes a mental note to try Yrden first, see if he can make it substantial before even  _ attempting _ to attack it. He backs up, beckoning Lance to follow him with a jerk of his head as he reaches into the leather pouch on his hip for a flask. He finds the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and sits down before getting to work.

“Specter oil?” Lance asks quietly, watching intently as Keith unsheathes his silver sword and sets it on his lap. 

“They’re technically cursed souls,” Keith explains, covering his blade in the oil thoroughly. “Like any other specter. This is the best strategy I have for now. Until it decides to show itself, that is,” He inspects his handiwork before handing the flask to Lance. “You should coat yours, too.”

“Ahh, right,” Lance says with a nod as he unsheaths his silver sword and sits down beside Keith.

“I’m gonna try Yrden first,” Keith states, sharp eyes trained on the shack as Lance works. “ _ Then _ we attack and see if that‘s successful. It doesn’t seem to be substantial, but I can still sense its movements. Best we can do is just try to keep it at a sword’s distance. If your weapon isn’t between you and it, it’s too close,” he says, turning back to Lance. “Remember that I have immunities. You don’t.”

Lance nods as he completes his task. “I might have a spell or two that could come in handy, so I can help from a distance.”

Though he doesn’t approve of Lance being here—it’s stupid and dangerous and he should be sending him right back to Crow’s Perch—something in the determined set of his brow makes Keith’s chest feel warm. “Good plan,” he says standing up and offering a hand to Lance. “Done?’

Lance takes his gauntleted hand and smiles. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do this!”

_ He’s trying to hide his nerves _ , Keith notes idly. His grip on Lance tightens ever so slightly. 

“Listen, if things take a turn for the worse in there, you need to get out immediately, yeah?” he says seriously. “Don’t try to play hero and just run the fuck out. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I might not make it out of this.”

Lance’s expression darkens at Keith’s words, just as it had before. “I’m not gonna leave you to  _ die _ , Keith. Be reasonable, please.”

“Look, I’m not saying I’m going in there with a death wish. I’m saying you need to have self-preservation. I’ve never fought a pesta, Lance,” Keith deadpans, eyes locking with Lance’s fiercely. “And I’m not infallible, despite what the general witcher consensus is. I’ll be risking my safety—risking yours, too, is out of the question.”

Keith watches a myriad of emotions cross Lance’s eyes, some he recognizes, some he doesn’t—fear, anxiety, anger, fondness. Finally, they settle on determination. 

“I don’t care,” he states, gripping the hilt of his silver sword tightly. “I know what I signed up for, and I trust you.”

It’s almost like the air is sucked clean out of his lungs as Lance’s words register. He feels his heart give an odd tug, like it wants to jump out of his chest, or maybe burst. It’s hard to tell under the warmth suddenly enveloping him. It’s a foreign emotion he doesn’t really have a name for. Doesn’t have experience with. “Lance…”

“No, listen to me, Keith,” Lance says, and that determination is still fervent in his voice. “You can’t stop people from caring about you,” He says hotly, and the warmth spreading through his limbs intensifies. “If there’s anything I can do to help you out, then  _ fuck _ , I’m gonna do it, and I don’t wanna hear you bitch and moan about it, okay? We’re a team, a damn good one if you ask me, so just….” he takes a shuddering breath and Keith can feel himself staring but the indignant flush coloring Lance’s skin is just too alluring. He can’t help it. “Just please trust me, too.”

“I do,” Keith says firmly. “I know I can trust you. I know you’re capable. That’s not what this is about!”

“Then what is it?”

“I…” his mouth is suddenly bone-dry and words are failing him. He what? What’s his reason, other than the life-threatening danger? It’s not like Lance hasn’t already been in danger. They’ve spent many a moon risking their lives together on countless contracts. So  _ what is it _ ?

The treacherous voice inside his head that sounds a hell of a lot like Shiro reminds him of that morning, waking up with Lance draped over his chest; his own arms wrapped around the mage’s slender waist. Soft hair brushing pleasantly against his cheek. Warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth or the thick furs of their bedding. 

“What the hell is it, Keith?” Lance demands, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“It’s _not_ _worth it_, Lance,” Keith all but hisses, surprising Lance into silence. “It’s not worth it to stick your neck out for something like this, risking your life like an idiot. You weren’t bred for this kind of work.” 

The words are harsh, and Keith can see hurt in Lance’s blue eyes as the mage looks at his muddied boots. No, no no no. This is wrong. That’s not what he’d meant to say. Fuck. “You need to  _ live _ ,” he continues seriously, hoping to remedy his screw up. “So that you can see the end of this stupid Godsdamned war and live in peace.” 

The frown on Lance’s brow deepens before he raises his eyes to meet Keiths. He looks somber. Subdued, almost. “I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs softly but with feeling. “I…  _ fuck _ , Keith. I care about you. If this is as dangerous as you’re making it out to be, I want to be there to help you. Like you’ve helped me, over and over again. I…” 

Lance stutters and purses his lips, looking as he’s said too much. Which is just as well for Keith, as the words sink into his chest like hot coals, burning through the ice wall he’s kept intact for as long as he can remember, until they reach his heart. He probably doesn’t mean it like that, Keith reasons. 

He frowns, reaching for his sack of alchemy supplies as he mulls over Lance’s words and his own thoughts. There’s a protective feeling surging within him, he realizes as his hand searches for saltpeter and quicksilver solution. It’s something he’s never even really felt about Shiro, or about any of his fellow Cats. Not in the same capacity. Not in the same realm of emotion; that in itself is strange enough. 

He locates the pouch of ground saltpeter and vial of quicksilver and looks up to meet Lance’s blue eyes. They’re set. Determined and ready to risk it all to help him.  _ Him _ .

It feels wrong to have someone so good and kind care about him in any capacity. Shiro looking out for him is one thing. Lance risking his life for him is something else altogether. 

He cares about Lance, too; it’s knowledge that has been prickling at him for the last several months of their travels together, something that he’d been wary of. Scared of, even. But it’s undeniable now.

He sets up his equipment around the log carefully, reaching for scraps of leather to wrap his Moon Dust bomb as he works and mulls through the thoughts making his head spin a bit. 

He sighs heavily, ignoring the odd sensation prickling at his skin at the thought of Lance hurt. Of Lance  _ dead,  _ because Keith couldn’t protect him. 

He fashions several bombs quickly, making sure the leather surrounding it is tight enough to keep the contents confined, but loose enough so that detonation is effective. He remains silent through his work.

Once he has five bombs ready, he gathers his supplies back in their respective pouches and faces Lance again. He walks up to him, reaching out thoughtlessly before he grips Lance’s hand, which is closed in a tight fist. 

He carefully unravels it, one slender finger at a time. Wordlessly, he deposits a Moon Dust in his palm before he closes Lance’s fingers around it. Gripping it firmly, like a lifeline. “Fine,” he consents quietly. “But if I don’t walk away from this, you better make damn sure you do.”

Lance doesn’t say a word as he simply nods once.

-x-

Once their preparations are in order, they make their way to the dilapidated shack.Beside him, Lance is ready; he’s wearing his Ban Ard necklace again. He’d explained once a few weeks ago how it amplifies the chaos in his veins; the magic that surges through his fingertips is stronger when the symbol is around his neck. Keith’s medallion is vibrating in tandem with it now, sensing the power and magic essence seeping out of Lance like an aura. It’s comforting. 

He looks at the mage as he extends his hand. Lance nods and takes several steps back in anticipation, raising his left hand out in front of him whilst the other reaches for the hilt of the shortsword at his back. 

They’re ready. Keith nods back in acknowledgement before thrusting his right hand out in the sign of Aard. 

The telekinetic force breaks through the aged, rotted wood of the shack in a blast that sends splinters and debris flying in every direction. 

Immediately, several things happen all at once: there’s an inhuman screech that makes his eardrums almost burst, rats the size of cats scurry away into the safety of the forest, and the plague maiden makes herself visible. 

She’s  _ revolting _ . Boils and puss cover every inch of her face, and the putrid stench wafting off of her is repulsive. It’s not often Keith has the urge to vomit, but he feels his stomach curdle. 

“Now, Lance!” he demands, specter oil-covered silver sword gripped tightly in both hands. Lance doesn’t hesitate to launch one of Moon Dust bombs Keith had entrusted to him earlier. His aim is true, the bomb landing on the ground directly beneath the pesta and detonating in a shower of silver shards. Keith shields his eyes as the pesta screeches again before he charges at it. He centers himself before casting Yrden, dodging out of the way as a clawed hand comes for his throat. 

The magic trap does its job beautifully, ensnaring the specter and sapping some of her vitality away as Keith raises his sword for the first strike. 

Thanks to the purple runes now imprinted on the ground, his blade connects with a solid body. It slices cleanly through her front, pus and maggots bursting out of the wound. The awful smell that follows makes his eyes water.

Using the momentum of his first strike, he pivots on his heel and brings the sword around in a clean sweep, aiming for the throat. The pesta thrashes against the binds of Yrden desperately, but it’s working, it’s—

Lance’s surprised shout from behind him snaps him out of focus. He throws a quick look behind him and sees the mage backing away from a swarm of rats, much bigger than the ones from before, squeaking and advancing on him. 

“Lance!” Keith calls, and even he can hear the desperate tone in his voice.

The mage is firing off a few freezing spells and keeping them at bay, but they’re still coming. 

Which is why he doesn’t see the clawed hand coming for his gut. Doesn’t realize until it’s plunging into his stomach, claws ripping through his flesh, until he roars in agony.

Fuck. That must be the single most stupid thing he has ever done. Never take your eyes off your hunt. Never let your guard down. Countless days of lessons like that had been beaten into him in his youth, during his training; had he learned nothing? 

“ _ Keith! _ ” He hears Lance, his voice echoed over the sudden pounding in his ears. Through the haze of the pain, he blinks the sudden spots in his eyes away. 

_ Bones _ , his mind says desperately as he pirouettes away gracelessly.  _ Find her bones and burn them to a fucking crisp _ . His arm trembles as he holds his silver sword in one hand defensively, the other attempting to staunch the heavy bleeding in vain. A wound this deep is gonna take longer to heal on its own, even with his witcher regeneration. He has to end this, now. Through his fingerless gauntlets, he can feel the blood seeping through the armor and dripping down the tanned leather. 

He can hear Lance in the background, his sword singing as he alternates between slashes of silver and spells as more and more vermin swarm him. Keith has to end this,  _ now _ . He can feel his energy depleting as he loses more and more blood, and  _ why isn’t he healing faster _ , why isn’t his skin stitching back together, why is he still  _ bleeding _ —

His eyes finally land on a skull in the corner, embedded in between nearly-disintegrated floorboards and tufts of grass and forest that have managed to find their way inside the shack over time. 

It’s his best bet. His one opportunity.

He glances back at the pesta just in time to roll out of the way of a blow aimed for his heart, feeling agony from his wound ripple through him. He pants as his vision blacks out for a moment, mind hazy. He drops his sword, reaching for a vial of plain oil, uncorking it with his teeth before dumping it on the skull and the rest of the bones he can make out. Removing his left hand from his side, covered in blood, he summons the rest of his waning vitality into the most potent shot of Igni he can conjure. 

The smell of smoke dulls his senses until there’s nothing left but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/lucari0s24)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback are always appreciated!! thank you so much for taking the time to read!!


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